


je t'aime bien

by Adequately



Category: DA:I, Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Crush, Continuous fluff, Crushes, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff without Plot, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:25:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 78
Words: 75,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5013475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adequately/pseuds/Adequately
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friendship is so easy, ma chérie. But romance? <i>Bananes.</i></p><p>And don't even drop the L-word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a certain je ne sais quoi

She’s... well, there’s something about her.

Cullen made nothing of true note regarding her before, the Herald of Andraste, sure, but from what Cassandra told him of her, she's nothing more than a simple rogue, an adequate fighter but a better archer with a terrible sense of humour, and comedic timing that is absolutely unbearable.

But after Haven goes down in an avalanche they agreed upon and she claws her way to their camp, freezing, alone, bloody, bruised, and nothing but, _“O-oh, h-h-hey you g-gu-guys. F-fancy mu-m-meeting you h-h-here,”_ on her lips, Cullen can’t help but take more note from then on.

He does not disagree with making her their leader. Joke as she may, there _is_ something about her. Being rumoured to have been delivered from the Fade by Andraste certainly helps inspire the masses, for one. But on the other hand, there's simply something about her he can't quite place. Perhaps it’s the fact that he can’t figure her out – the allure of mystery, the potential or hope that there's more to her than meets the eye.

Perhaps it’s the way she moves. She's quiet and he never hears her approaching. It's slightly unnerving, and after each of their conversations, which are, granted, few in number, he can’t not watch her leave because if he blinks, she’ll disappear. Where does she go, he wonders, and how does she leave like that? Can she even be trusted?

Yes, actually. And maybe, just maybe, that's it.

They’re not friends, not really. They're professional almost all the time, but between evacuating Haven and coming up with a suicide plan where one of them lives and the other probably won't, it's hard not to trust someone, if only a little.

Curiously, however, she takes it further.

She makes an effort to talk to him, all small talk, but it's something he wasn't expecting: casual and friendly. And then she takes it even further: she smiles at him.

There's a hole in the sky and she almost died because that's what they agreed upon. There's nothing to smile about.

But after she's made Inquisitor, after he's told her about his condition and she thanks him for telling her, one day she just really smiles at him, and it's tender, that smile. He won't soon forget it.

He was tired that day - body aching, head spinning, that sound, that piercing ring that shoots through his ears still going. She probably knew, then. Something must have given him away. After he responded to one of her many questions –so appropriately inquisitive, that Inquisitor– she smiled that smile. It wasn’t like that first smile at Haven, that one was just mere jesting. This one was... well, there was just something about it. He appreciated it all the same.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she offered. “Take care, Commander.”

Cullen can’t quite place what it is, but there’s just something about her.


	2. New Kid

She’s terribly sneaky, and by terribly, he does mean very skilled.

No one knows where she runs off to while she and her party return to Skyhold. Cullen initially suspected the strange occurrences around the fortress to be her doing, but it was none other than Cole.

One day however, he finds her.

“You there! What are you doing to that poor sod?”

“Sorrrrrrrry, I’m new,” she apologizes, though lacking just slightly in sincerity. Cullen turns around to spot her with the wounded, making his way over. “Just gonna redress this man’s wounds. Wouldn’t want him to bleed and out and, I don’t know, _die_ or something.”

The surgeon scoffs, but nevertheless leaves her to it.

“Inquis–“

“Shhh.”

“Heral–“

“ _Really_ , Commander?” she hisses. “You’re going to give me away.”

“What are you doing?”

“Helping. Or does it actually look like I’m hurting this man?” she asks, inspecting her work. Her injured companion, arms raised and watching as she wraps some gauze around his torso, smiles and nods to reassure her that she isn’t doing something wrong.

“With all due respect, may I ask why? The surgeon is just over there. She can handle this.”

“I like to keep my hands busy,” she shrugs. “Last week I was pretending to be a servant for one of the noble houses visiting Skyhold – someone came down with something and they were short one elf. You would not believe the things I heard. Scandalous.”

“Huh.”

“It’s true,” she murmurs, giving the man’s hand a firm squeeze before brushing herself off and standing. Cullen eyes her skeptically. “Did I mention that I’m glad so many people made it out of Haven?”

“You may have,” he responds. “I suppose you want to make sure they survive.”

“And you,” she adds, much less bashful than the first time she’d accidentally stated she was relieved he survived the attack. Cullen clears his throat. “I’m just keeping an eye out. They’re _my_ soldiers now.”

Later that day, Cullen finds a small jar of herbs in the middle of his desk. Tied to the neck, he finds it labelled _“tea – good for headaches”_ along with a smiley face, flowers, and a heart scrawled along the side.


	3. Meet Me in the Pit

_We should spend more time together_. The words ring in his mind for days, more so when she leaves the fortress.

Inquisitive as she ever, she asks him things. Various things, and often. Many are personal in nature – family, other hobbies aside from chess, his advice on something, his opinion on other matters, any predictions, and religious, historical, or magical details that he, as a human and ex-templar, would know that she would not. She comes to him to compare notes – things she’s gathered from her companions and other advisors. They speak a great deal.

But when she said that they should spend more time together, as in not work related, his first thought wasn’t sparring.

He’s merely overseeing his officers train new recruits, discussing a few matters with them while simultaneously reminding the novices to block with their shield because it truly could save their lives. She calls out to him then, seemingly disinterested in her bow and arrows.

“I disagree.”

“I’m sorry?” he asks. Nearly sputters, as no one has the mind to challenge form, or him, aside from Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra.

“I disagree,” she repeats. “I never block, and yet I’m still here.”

“You’re an archer, as I recall.”

“I can do close,” she says nonchalantly with a shrug.

“Can you now?”

“I most certainly can.”

“Prove it.”

It’s the first time he’s ever heard her laugh. Well, it was more like a soft giggle. It’s also the first time he’s ever acted like a child since he was in fact, a child. But she pushed. It may have been more like a gentle nudge of a push, but he had to push back. She challenged his authority in front of his subordinates, walked circles around him as she did so, and he _is_ rather curious.

He takes up a sword and shield. As if on cue, Harritt swings by to give her a sword much smaller, thinner, and likely lighter than his, the design very much foreign, and the end curved closer to a hook. The way she holds it makes him almost want to cringe were it not for the fact that it was likely made distinctly for her, or her size – elves.

She spins the blade round and round as the two of them walk circles around each other. Her eyes tell him to make the first move. She dares him.

When he swings at her, she steps aside. He swings again. Another side step. Several more slashes and all she does is move herself with ease. When he locks gazes with her, he tells her to make the next move.

She thrusts her blade, or rather, a gentle poke, likely to test how he’d react. He meets her sword with his, blocking. He swings at her, and this time she parries. When he recovers and turns to swings again, she meet him with a succession of three hits, aimed at his blade, from the left, from below, then she pirouettes and their blades clash at the third. He parries then, brings their swords to point downward. She grins.

“Knee,” she muses, and when he looks down, she’s just about ready to thrust her sword into his kneecap. She misses, however, or it’s rather deliberate, and sticks her sword into the ground in the space between his legs. As he looks up, she jumps him, and before he knows it he’s on his back, her foot locked on his forearm, keeping his shield down, other hand securing his other arm, and herself seated on his stomach.

Somewhere along the line she pulled a dagger out on him, probably from Harritt, and has it pressed it against his throat casually.

“Proven?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. He pushes himself forward then, knocking her flat on her back, the edge of his shield pressed against her throat.

“Not quite.”

“I disagree. Again,” she winks. He feels a sharp object poke at his more private parts, and when his cheeks are tinted with a rosy pink, she giggles again. “Pretty sure I’m faster, too.”

“How many times have you done this?”

“A lady never tells,” she says coyly. “Or so I’m told.”

Their audience, which he nearly forgot about, murmur amongst themselves. It must look like a tie. Neither of them were really trying, but part of him wishes that she was. Her movement is different, her style to her size and not based on strength but speed, precision, and misdirection, and if it were a real fight, he’s certain she would’ve used a few dirty tricks up her sleeve. He’d like to know how that works.

He releases her then, offers her a hand which she takes.

“We should do this again sometime.”

“And have you threaten my...?”

All she does is smirk.


	4. I'm Game

She brings him games. _Actual_ games. And riddles. Well, she leaves him riddles. She brings him games.

She calls it multitasking. Or taking a break from work. Or dealing with stress that doesn’t involve throwing her work off the balcony of her room.

After her humiliating string of losses at chess, he told her to bring something she might actually win at. She raised a brow, and her lips twisted into a mischievous smile.

The next time she visits, she brings throwing knives.

“You’re not going to try and cheat at this, are you?”

“How can I cheat at this?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Commander.”

Her aim is inhuman. Probably because she isn’t even one. He always thought his aim was decent, but when she opens the door and moves several feet outside and then hits the dummy in the middle of his office in between the eyes, he thinks he’ll need practice.

“You have to be cheating. Somehow.”

“I can do it blindfolded after spinning around a lot if you still don’t think I’m this good.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You wound me, Commander.”

It’s his turn to laugh, but he does find something to cover her eyes as she comes back inside. She spins around in circles before slightly losing her balance, and he reaches out to stop her from falling over.

“I’m covering your eyes, too.”

“If it’ll make you feel better,” she teases. “Ok, where?”

“The throat,” he responds after placing his hands over her already blindfolded eyes. It’s then that he realizes it’s the first time he’s ever touched her, or been this close. He notices she only comes up to his chin.

She hums in thought, taking baby steps about and likely measuring her position in her mind, bumping her back into his chest, murmuring an apology as she passes the knife between her hands. Eventually she settles on her left, and throws the blade. Cullen remains silent, hands still covering her eyes.

“I nailed it, didn’t I?”

“You missed.”

“Your silence is telling.”

“I think you hit a lung,” he tells her. She scoffs, nudges his chest with her entire back, and takes his hands from her eyes, the blindfold along with them to observe her work.

“Nailed it.”


	5. The F-word

She’s his friend.

He rather likes the feeling of having one again.

There is a difference between comrades-in-arms, an amicable working relationship and so on, but she’s his friend. After Haven, they sort of just... clicked. It’s hard to explain, he doesn’t actually know that much about her beyond how ridiculous she is almost all the time, and the few instances when she’s a very serious person, but... that’s just her. And he gets it.

He also has his things  – his past, things he’s not proud of, things he hasn’t told her or tells anyone, and she gets it, too. He likes that.

He wants to think it’s mutual respect, but she’s always regarded him respectfully, and though he never paid her much mind before, he does now. But Cullen knows that’s not it. Not very many people ever have to experience something like the moment in Haven’s chantry. He didn’t know what to say to her then (“I hope you don’t die” not being the best choice, but an honest one), so they kept it professional. They were never close before, but the moment she closed the chantry doors behind her, he thinks it happened – they clicked. And everything felt different after.

She can stand next to him, and they won’t speak. They’ll just work, and they work well. Other times they won’t shut up, either about work, or why she’s throwing bananas off the balcony of her room – _“For science. Duh,”_ she said – and just go on. About anything. Cullen usually likes to work, but she’ll slip something about puppies, pie, shoes, mud, the half-skirt every Inquisition soldier gets to wear besides her (and she’s _so_ jealous), or how he gets his hair to be that nice every day into their conversation seamlessly and suddenly it’s two hours later and he’s smiling about ducks. Actually.

He feels like a kid again, playing games and running around outside with the other children when he was seven, screaming, making things up, pretending to be knights and fighting monsters. She doesn’t necessarily run around with him screaming and pretending to fight monsters, but the sensation feels familiar. They did fight demons together, though.

He doesn’t need to be professional in front of her, something she shows him after randomly appearing in his office on multiple occasions without a word but instead a game in hand, work in the other, and a string of bananas hanging off her shoulder.

She gives him a sense of balance between work and recreation, and like all friends, he can tell her some unusual or embarrassing things without worrying she’ll laugh at him. Much.

He doesn’t really mind, however. She never laughs on serious matters. Plus, the sound is positively infectious, and sometimes, Cullen finds himself laughing at the thought of bananas or cheese for five minutes after she’s left, maybe longer. He could use more laughter in his line of work.


	6. You're Gonna Miss Me When I'm Gone

While she’s off in the Western Approach for over a month, Cullen comes to realize: he misses her presence.

All the joking, the laughing, the ridiculous thumb wars she insists upon but always loses, the random questions of what-if, her strange fixation with throwing fruit from high places and forcing him to join her, the amicable silence but they're working together so it's okay, his own teasing at her expense because she is just so terrible at chess, the questions she asks and the answers he gives that allow him to put his own beliefs into perspective.

He actually misses it.


	7. No Adventure for You

The Emerald Graves proved to be most educational and less heartbreaking for her.

She returns to Skyhold, eyes glimmering with astonishment, her person bouncing with every step she takes.

“You should’ve seen it,” she sighs, sitting on the edge of his desk, “The trees, the animals, the lushness of the forest, the ruins, that dragon. We even ran into some other Dalish elves there. It was amazing.”

“You fought a dragon?” his eyes widen. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she waves a hand, amused by his mothering. “Not as bad as it sounds.”

“Are you certain?”

“You had to have been there,” she smiles. “It was actually kinda fun.”

And for a moment he truly wants to go venture out with her before remembering his duties.


	8. nom nom nom

Her stomach grumbles loudly as she consults him about Sutherland and his company. She wants them to be safe, they’re still relatively new and she doesn’t want him to die before he goes grey.

“Pardon me, but have you eaten yet?” Cullen raises a brow. She’s about to respond when his stomach gurgles a little as well.

“Asked the man who likely hasn’t eaten either,” she winces, rubbing her stomach gingerly. “Do you think they’d mind terribly if we just... raided the kitchen?”

“Did you miss dinner in the hall?”

“By the sound of it I’m not the only one,” she counters. “I suppose I could ask them to bring us something here but... I don’t want them to go out of their way so late, but I don’t want to be so rude as to dine in the hall after everyone’s eaten. It might look like I didn’t want to sit with some of our noble guests, and Josephine’ll kill me if that’s what someone sees.”

Cullen’s stomach roars this time, and he clears his throat, “I think we can be quick. I’m sure there’s something left over.”

She doesn’t respond, instead snatches his hand, taking him into stealth with her.


	9. That's What Friends are For

She panics when he falls to his knees. He’s never seen her panic, but she’s too worried to hide it, and he’s in too much pain to really care.

“What can I do? What do you need? Can you even talk to me right now? Creators, I–“

He’s not thinking when he grabs her hands and squeezes them for dear life, doesn’t give much thought as to whether they’re close enough for it, but she seems to know precisely how close they are, and hugs him as tightly as she can, wraps her little elven arms around him, her hesitance indicative only of how she doesn’t know what else she can do.

He can feel her, however, _really feel her_ , and he knows he’s not back there, _Maker_ , don’t take him back there. She doesn’t fit in his waking nightmare – she wasn’t there when it happened, and so he knows it’s not real.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that. His breathing evens out, the pain in his head subsiding ever so slightly as he lets his eyes close, face nuzzled into her hair. She smells like grass and trees – nothing like a Circle Tower and its old parchment or burnt spellbooks.

The next time she rushes to his side without a word.


	10. Ooh, la la!

Someone claims they walked in on the Commander and Inquisitor wrapped up in each other’s arms. It was all very romantic, apparently.

The story goes, well, as well as it can, that the Inquisitor was either dreadfully homesick, the poor thing, ill with a fever, the poor thing again, or she was so tragically in love with the wicked evil magister but he confessed to not returning her affections and was only using her to further his plot against the Venatori that she felt then, so heartbroken, that she ran from the rotunda to get away, only to run into Cullen, quite literally. He could tell something was amiss though she refused to tell him, struggling to get out of his big, strong arms before finally breaking down (or fainting, as she might’ve had a fever instead), and the Commander brought her into his office where they stayed together the whole day. Only did she leave at night when the tears no longer stained her face, and when everyone had cleared the main hall for her to return to her quarters. The Commander offered to escort her there personally, of course, but she declined, as the scandal would be too high, and he’d already done so very much for her. Whether or not she kissed his cheek is debated upon by nobles and servants alike, too bored to talk about anything else.

“Apparently, anyway,” Varric chuckles as Cullen cringes at his retelling. The worst part is that Varric did not add to it – whatever he could come up with would be infinitely better. “Give it a week, Curly. I’m sure she’ll talk to that chevalier, what’s his name? Michel? Five seconds longer than necessary and the whole of Skyhold’ll think she’ll run off to elope with him in the middle of the night. Semi-star crossed lovers seems to be a popular thing these days.”

“That isn’t even close to what actually happened,” Cullen groans. Varric laughs again, the sound echoing through the hall.


	11. Hey. Hey, look.

There’s something in the way that she looks at people.

He hadn’t noticed before, and he honestly never made much of how people made eye contact, but they’re on their way to the war room when a courier comes running up to him to hand him something from Leliana and then, “I-i-inquisitor.”

“Hi, again,” she waves. She also smiles, bites her lip to suppress a giggle at the flush of red across the courier’s face as she studies him. “Don’t tell me, it’s... Francis, right? We ran into each other in the garden the other day.”

“Uh, yes, Your Worship,” Courier Francis bows. “P-pardon me, Your Worship. C-commander.”

“Of course,” she nods, waving goodbye just as sweetly as she did hello. She glances at Cullen, who watches her with a raised brow. “What?”

“That was...?”

“Just being friendly.”

“Just being friendly?” he echoes. “The way you looked at him seemed–“

“Why, Commander... is that judgment in your tone?” she teases. “Do you disapprove?”

“N-no! I didn’t mean to–“

“I know, Cullen. I only jest,” she replies, turning to face him. “But I’m looking at you right now. Does it seem different?”

She looks straight into his eyes, scanning his face every few seconds. She smiles just slightly, tilts her head to the side and seemingly out of habit, bites her lower lip, utterly focused. Her brows furrow just slightly, her eyes slowly moving about, taking in some feature on his face with care, studying him, and he realizes she does more than just look at someone.

Cullen shifts under her gaze, understanding courier Francis’ discomfort as he struggles to maintain eye contact. Feeling himself failing, he decides to take in all of her features as well – her big elven eyes, the tattoo – vallaslin, was it? – circling her left eye in a faded black, likely a few years old, the fact that she only has hair on one side of her head with a light buzz on the other half, the scars in the centre of her face, running off the bridge of her nose and onto her cheek, and the one on her lip as she bites.

Lavellan clears her throat to get his attention, succeeding.

“Shall we head to the war room, Commander?”

“... Of course. After you, Inquisitor,” he nods, watches as she smiles at him, a fond smile she reserves for her allies, and leads the way in, granting him a bit more time to observe her – pick up little details like her scars he’s never noticed before, her likely bloody knuckles wrapped up in some gauze.

During the meeting, however, Cullen couldn’t find it in him to stop.


	12. Eyes on the Prize

“You could not stop staring at our dear Inquisitor that entire meeting, Commander,” Leliana says from behind. Cullen’s shoulders stiffen – no doubt she’s heard that dreadful rumor and its countless variations about himself and Lavellan, and catching him looking at her would only– “Do you like her?”

“I was merely observing,” he replies truthfully. He’s never actually taken the time to truly look at her, study every feature, every scar, how she walks in precisely one line, her posture, where her eyes look or wander, how she chews her lip when deep in thought, how she sits on the war table, turns a cup around in her hands, rubs it gingerly with her index fingers, tilts her head and grins at him when she catches him watching, sticks her tongue out and makes silly faces at him the second and third time, leans on Josephine just slightly, smiling when Lady Montilyet blushes at their close proximity. He’s never noticed before, never bothered to notice because they’re friends – he doesn’t need to observe her behaviour, she’s there when she’s there, she isn’t when she’s isn’t, they know each other, he doesn’t need to study her and know how she works and why, but he wonders if this is how she sees things, and he finds it interesting – finds _her_ interesting, if a little odd. But that’s what makes her _her_ , and he likes this about her. She’s fun.

“Oh? Anything in particular? Her backside? Or perhaps the front?”

Cullen groans, “She looks at people – watches them differently. I thought to try it myself.”

“Then why not observe our ambassador?”

“Because you’d likely slip something into my food and have me ill for the next three weeks if I so much as glanced at her inappropriately,” he says plainly. Leliana chuckles.

“She is quite lovely, yes?”

“Poised and graceful.”

“And her ears.”

“What about Josephine’s ears?”

“I speak of our Inquisitor, Commander,” Leliana quirks a brow. “Tell me, if you did not see her ears move, something she does quite often when deep in thought, where were your eyes exactly?”

Cullen grumbles.


	13. Rumour Has It...

The next time Lav challenges him to a chess match, and he finds it rather amusing how she’s so confident she’ll win this time, Cullen watches her intently for any ear movements.

“Why are you watching me so intently, Commander?”

“Sorry?”

“You’ve been staring at my head for the past three minutes as I contemplate my next move,” she murmurs, finally looking up at him. “Is there something in my hair?”

“Ah, it’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it? Are you all right?” she straightens in her seat, forgetting the game. “Did I do something?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then are you trying to decide whether or not to confront me now that everyone at Skyhold knows that I’m secretly in love with you?”

“I beg your pardon?” he gapes.

“Or so I keep hearing,” she chuckles, offering a lopsided smile, her ears shifting with it. “I didn’t know I was secretly in love with you either, believe me. But earlier today while I was in the hall with Varric, I heard the most peculiar thing.”

Cullen relaxes, if just slightly, “Do tell.”

“I heard that I was going to run off into the night with Michel de Chevin to elope! I had no idea.”

Cullen chuckles, “To think, you’d miss your own wedding.”

“But I barely know him,” she responds. “You’d think whoever comes up with these rumours would pick someone a bit closer. Like Dorian. Or you. Which is what someone said, and then I heard: I’m so terribly in love with you, Commander, that I couldn’t possibly run off with Michel. And his excellent accent.”

“Are you flirting with me, Inquisitor?”

“Well I did run into your, what was it? _Strong, manly arms_ after being rejected by my magister friend. And I was such a mess that I stayed there the whole day.”

Cullen laughs, “I do believe I offered to escort you back to your quarters once the sun set. At least from what Varric told me.”

“You were such a gentleman, so I hear,” she giggles. “I’m surprised the story didn’t go any further.”

“How so?”

“It ends with you leaving me at the door to my quarters, Commander. At least the one I heard. I suppose you heard a different story,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. She brushes a lock of hair behind an ear, “I don’t think I should say it out loud in case someone overhears and fabricates some story as to what we _could’ve_ done in my quarters all night. In that rumor, of course.”

“ _Oh_. Right,” he clears his throat. She giggles, the implications of what she’d just said tinting the tip of her ears red as they wiggle, her turning her attention back to the game. Cullen continues observing as she bites at her lower lip, pondering her next move. She glances at him through thick lashes he’s never actually noticed were quite so long, and smiles.

He shifts in his seat, a sudden sense of discomfort rising in his stomach, not unlike the time she’d studied his face in front of the war room after their encounter with the courier. It dawned on Cullen, however, that perhaps that Francis fellow didn’t find her gaze as unnerving as much as he wanted to keep it. The way she looks at someone, the way Cullen had been trying to see things the past few weeks, is something else.

It’s so attentive, her gaze, and it does not stray – no one else matters when she's looking at someone. She takes every feature in, every detail, every scar, every wrinkle at the eyes or breath after each laugh, her eyes always flickering across a person's face. Every smile or frown, each variation she can read, her posture changing just slightly, eyes analyzing, and person accommodating so she can figure out what to do to make them smile again, something Cullen has picked up on every time she sees him with a furrowed brow or a pensive look, asks him if anything may be wrong, and does whatever she can to understand why he might not be having a good day, not acting until she knows that he would welcome her help. Her eyes light up with wonder and amazement – he can only guess what goes through her mind when she sees someone. And of course, she smiles. Softly, because she must be fond of them, or big and bright, happier than ever because she can't hide it. At least, that’s how it seems when Cullen watches her look about. The warmth in her eyes when she looks at him, however, tells him his observation is fairly accurate. He can’t quite explain it, but he very much appreciates the way she looks at him – like he matters, despite the things he’s not proud of. She cares about him, deeply, and he knows it. She makes certain that he knows it.

He glances at her again, notices how she’s pulled her legs up to her chest, removed her boots, wiggles her toes, sometimes tapping her foot on the chair to a rhythm he’s not familiar with, and how her eyes occasionally glance to the side at the sound of someone else’s voice in the garden. She pays so much attention, he realizes, and a lot of it goes to him.

“You’re staring at me again, Cullen,” she muses. “Are you imagining yourself holding me with your strong arms? Perhaps escorting me to my quarters, this time all the way up? Maybe undressing me with your eyes?”

He sputters something incomprehensive.

“I’m joking,” she laughs, a hand coming up to cover her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d take that seriously.”

“It’s-it’s fine,” he manages. When he glances at her again, he spots her watching him, and not hiding it at all. “Though you’re staring at me now.”

“Just trying to figure out what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

“ _Pretty_?”

“Oh, fine. _Handsome_ ,” she shakes her head. “Better?”

“You think I’m... pretty?”

“No, I think you’re _handsome_ ,” she scoffs. “We just established that not a few seconds ago.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, staring at her intently. He doesn’t ever recall her calling him pretty, or attractive. She could be teasing, of course, but she’s never done so before so why now?

“Everyone at Skyhold thinks you’re handsome, Cullen,” she raises a brow. “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. And yes, I’ve known of your beauty the moment I met you at Haven, even as we fought demons. I was blinded by your beauty. And the flashing green lights, mark on my hand, and hole in the sky, but mostly your beauty.”

He scoffs, “You’re ridiculous.”

“I have eyes, Commander, and I always use them,” she grins. “But all joking aside, you are quite handsome, so don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. If anyone actually would.”

“I didn’t–“

“You looked like you wanted to ask,” she chuckles. “Now, shall we get back to this game?”


	14. One Joke too Far

Cullen is quite certain everyone at Skyhold is fast asleep save the guards on rotation when she slips into his office, and in a sing-song voice, “I brought you foooooood. You’re welcome.”

“How do you know I haven’t already eaten?” he raises a brow, rolling his shoulders one after the next. She tosses him a loaf of bread, then sets down a small pot she likely borrowed from the kitchen, two bowls from her bag, then pours soup into each.

“Because if you’re up at this hour, and I’m up at this hour, that means both of us lost track of time and forgot to eat,” she winks. His stomach growls and she raises a brow.

He groans slightly at his stomach, “Thank you.”

“I know you like it when I don’t ask, but how’re you feeling?”

He sighs, rounds his desk and takes a seat atop it next to her, ripping the bread in half and handing a piece to her. “Tired. Yourself?”

She stifles a yawn, leaning to the side before bumping into his arm, “Also tired. And I need to leave tomorrow.”

“Where to this time again?”

“Forbidden Oasis. Beats the Storm Coast and the Fallow Mire any day,” she smiles sleepily. “I could use the sun. All this mountain air is making me wilt.”

“You’re not a flower.”

She scoffs, offended, “Excuse you, Commander, but I’m a very delicate flower.”

“Right,” he agrees with sarcasm, eying her bandaged fingers as she plays with her food.

“They’re bruised and battered. No one’s kissed them to make them feel better,” she sighs, flexing her fingers.

“I’ve played thumb wars with you, at your request. Your fingers are not dainty in the least.”

“Shhh, not so loud. I’m supposed to look small and fragile, also mildly incompetent.”

“I rather like that you aren’t, actually,” he chuckles, but moments after the words leave his lips, Cullen realizes how exactly they sound, or could sound, given the rumours surrounding the two of them. Her brows shoot up and she giggles, resting her chin in the palm of her hand as she sends him one very suggestive look.

“Why Commander, are you flirting with me?” she teases. “I admit, I didn’t see that coming. I had no idea you felt that way about me.”

Cullen clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck, “I-I didn’t mean it to be– I meant to say that your strength goes beyond your size, which seems to be a point where people consider you less. And I respect your strength.”

“Mhm-hmm.”

“That sounded terrible, didn’t it?”

“A little corny,” she snickers, placing a hand on his, “but thank you.”

“You have quite the hands,” he tells her. “...that came out very wrong.”

“How would you know how good my hands are, Commander?” she smirks.

“I didn’t– I don’t... your traps, your aim and– Maker’s breath...“

She laughs, nice and loud, nearly falling off his desk before he grabs her arm, “But just so you know: I can do quite a few things with my hands.”

Cullen blushes and clears his throat, “I, uh...”

“Your back hurts, doesn’t it?” she asks, tone shifting. “You rolled your shoulders when I came in, and you’ve been sitting up and shifting in your seat quite a bit.”

“You have sharp eyes,” he notes. “There, that didn’t sound so inappropriate.”

She giggles, but wiggles her fingers, “I can, y’know, gets the knots out if you want.”

He's silent for a moment too long, deliberating between accepting and declining, weighing their relationship and the level of appropriateness providing an answer for her. She presses her fingers to the base of his neck, and instead, he sighs, content. He’d already discarded his armor for the day, preferring to work comfortably instead of maybe falling asleep in his chair in his armor, which he would’ve felt in the morning.

She sets aside her empty bowl, dusts her hands off before moving behind him on his desk, hands slowly pressing at his back, following the slightest of instructions, taking cues from his reactions.

Some time after, however, he feels her hair tickling his neck, her breath by his ear and she whispers, “I _can_ do several different things with my hands, though, Commander. Since you seem so fascinated by them.”

His cheeks are burning at the implications, but not long after she bursts into a fit of laughter, leaning on him for support as his skin burns up at her touch.

“Maker’s breath,” he exhales, turning his head sharply, “you are–“

“I’m sorry, but you made it so easy I had to,” she breathes, which he can feel run down his neck. Their close proximity suddenly becomes very apparent to Cullen, and he clears his throat, backing away. She grimaces, eyes big and apologetic. ”I am sorry, though. Was that too far?”

“I... no. I know you only mean to make light of the things others have said,” he responds after a moment. In truth, the idea of her touching him, more than just a hug or holding his hand when he’s having a rough day, crosses his mind for the first time. Her hands in his hair, thumb brushing his cheek, his lips, hands running up his arms, on his chest, and of course, in some far more inappropriate places he should not be thinking about that she suggested not moments before.

She offers him a cup of tea he didn’t know she’d made (she _does_ have good hands) before bumping his shoulder with hers.

“Get some rest. You look really tired,” she smiles, and though the lighting in his office is dim, he can see an apology in her smile, as well as hear it in her voice.

She moves to leave, collecting what she brought before he gives her hand a squeeze and smiles at her. She averts her gaze, brushes a lock of hair behind an ear, and Cullen, though tired, is almost certain he spots a blush across her face. Maybe.

“Rest easy, Commander.”


	15. Only in Your Dreams

He dreams about her, despite himself. He’s never dreamt about her before.

Well, that’s half true. She may have shown up once or twice in his nightmares to contradict something and wake him up, usually doing something odd like tying bananas together and throwing them out the window, only for them to turn into paper birds or flowers that are actually his reports he needs to read, but before they hit the ground they transform into cheese wheels, rolling off into the abyss as she continues throwing things out the window, laughing hysterically, once manically, before eating tiny cakes with Varric and Dorian, then having tea, only to have Bull throw her on a cloud before floating away.

But he’s never dreamt of _just_ her.

His dream takes him to earlier this evening, the conversation about her hands, but this time, he moves to kiss one of them before she leaves. She pulls back, however, and takes his face into her hands and kisses him. She’s too short, so he lifts her, wraps his arms around her legs, and in his dream he can feel her calloused fingers running through his hair, her index finger tracing his jaw before he sets her down on his desk, taking her bandaged hand and kissing the palm, then the pads of each digit. She blushes, smiles, bites her lip as she always does before he moves to press his to hers once more, only this time she slips her tongue inside.

He wakes up after that, mortified and mildly confused that he dreamt about his friend as more than such.

“She’s my _friend_ ,” he tries to rationalize, relieved to dream about something other than the broken Circle, but suddenly the comforting notion, the concept of and the word _friend_ feels foreign on his tongue. Is she his friend? How can she be so comfortable entertaining the idea of the two of them as anything more? Does she think about it? Does she dream about him? Does she actually find him attractive? Does she like him? Why did she blush? Did she actually blush or was he imagining that?

Does he like her more than he already does?


	16. Let's Get Physical

She goes off to the Oasis as she said, likely making several stops on the way to and back. He doesn’t get the chance to speak to her for over two months, though he wouldn’t have known what to say to her that morning.

When she returns however, Cullen still doesn’t have the slightest idea on how to broach the subject of, well, his feelings, to her. Or if he even should. He’d been busy, working of course, and hadn’t the time to really contemplate his emotions. All he knows is that she is his friend, but at the same time she isn’t. _Friend_ no longer feels like an adequate title, though she still is, and yet something more. Cullen thinks he likes her far more than he should be allowed, and that sometime during her two month plus absence, he established that he finds her quite... charming. Guiltily so, however.

He runs into her on her way into the main hall, himself overseeing some of the injured, her finishing up some business with some shop owners. Her hair is tied into a messy bun that falls to the side, frazzled and sweaty, her body covered in sand, dirt, a little bit of blood, and her skin slightly more tanned than her usual complexion.

He’s never truly taken notice of her appearance, not really, but as she undoes her hair, shakes it loose and massages her locks out, the two of them walking together in their comfortable silence, he does notice: she actually is quite lovely.

He _is_ allowed to think that, Cullen tells himself. She confessed to thinking he was handsome, and it didn’t mean anything – it was just a compliment. She has eyes, and she uses them. Likewise, he also possesses eyes, and he’ll use them as well.

He glances at her as discreetly as he can – the tattoo upon her face that makes her stand out amongst the city elves who work for the Inquisition he noticed before. Her skin, olive and unfair, that of a commoner, sprinkled with a few brown spots and even more scars, old and new. Her hair, a deep chocolately brown is tousled and voluminous despite being sweaty, falling to frame half her face perfectly with every turn or tilt of her head, and her eyes – her big, curious, attentive brown eyes.

The feature he favours most, however, seems to be her hands, which, on several occasions, he’s held – her calloused, small, rough, scarred, worn, sometimes muddy, bandaged, bloody, or soot covered elven hands. Hands she truly knows how to use and does so often, which he respects a great deal.

Hands he also dreamt of, but he shakes the memory from his mind as best he can.

But it’s not her appearance – it’s the way she carries herself that truly makes her... well, _her_ , in such a way that no one can mimic, making her truly memorable, and he’s memorized it all now, interestingly enough. From every smile, to every tilt of her head, to her favourite habit of biting her lip, every flutter of her ears, every giggle and sigh, her nonchalant shoulder shrugs, glances or smirks sent over said shoulders, the occasional wink, which is typically mischievous. The way she talks – polite and civil to playful and flirtatious. Her riddles, her jesting, her teasing and breathless laughter; it’s every little detail.

It used to be that Cullen never noticed these things about her, not really, but now? Now they frequent his thoughts more than they should, and everything about her lingers in his mind for days.

Does he like her? Certainly. But the rumors, their closeness... it didn’t change them, but it most certainly changed something. It’s been a while since he last harbored any affection for anyone. He’s not even certain if he does now, in fact.

But she occupies his thoughts, more than any friend should do so, and he’s dreamt of her – more than once now, all what-ifs, different moments they’ve spent together which could have meant more. He’s not sure what to make of his dreams – does he want them to mean something? Does he wish he’d done something differently in those moments?

“How was Skyhold while I was away this time?”

“Quiet,” he smiles fondly. “It’s good to have you back.”

“It must’ve been extremely quiet, then,” she giggles. “You missed me.”

“I...“ he starts, but she is technically right. He’s still in the process of figuring out what he feels, precisely, but he knows he felt her absence. He always does, in fact. He’s fond of her, very fond, and when she’s gone, it’s quiet and lonely. There’s no one around for him to eat with late at night, no one to sneak him little puzzles or riddles, no one to sing his title at him every time they greet him, or steal him away for a moment of peace and quiet. “It was dreadfully boring without you.”

“I bet. I took Sera with me this time. Josephine probably had a peaceful time meeting and greeting dignitaries,” she grins. “Oh, speaking of which: are they in the hall? How does my hair look? Vivienne would strangle me if I walk in there looking indecent.”

“You look rather... worn.”

“Can you fix it?” she asks urgently, ruffling her hair a bit.

“You trust me to fix your hair?”

“ _Cullen_. Your hair always looks nice,” she grumbles, desperation in her eyes. “And I really don’t need Josephine _and_ Madame de Fer breathing down my neck about my unruly appearance. Please. Or would you have me _beg_?”

He scoffs, mostly to cover up the impending blush on his cheeks, but removes his gloves, running his fingers through her hair, which he now knows is incredibly soft, though sandy. His thumbs brush at the dirt on her cheeks, and she winces as his fingers reach a few knots.

“Am I being too rough?” he asks.

“No, you’re fine,” she smiles. His hand lingers in her hair for a moment, tempted to touch her face, but she does it for him, nudges the palm of his hand with her cheek and smiles. “I owe you one.”


	17. For You.

“You look so pensive,” she observes from behind. Cullen jumps, turning away from the mountain view and to his companion as she strolls to his side. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” he confesses. Between all the work, preparations to lay siege to Adamant Fortress, her coming and going as swiftly as she can, he hasn’t had the time to really relax. She’s typically the one to bring him do so, but her absence is felt, and in addition to it, his lingering unknown feelings have been festering, leaving him in a poorer state than he’d like to admit, on top of his physical pains and headaches.

“Anything I can help with?” she asks, placing a hand on his as it rests on the pommel of his sword. Her eyes are filled with concern, fondness, familiarity, and a yearning –she wants to know, wants to help– but Cullen blushes under her gaze before tearing his away. The way she looks at him like he is the only thing that matters, despite all the preparations and work going on around them makes his slight migraine forgotten amidst the fluttering in the pit of his stomach when in her presence.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he sighs, repeating himself, and rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. She’s unsure of how to respond, the physical distance between them and likely Cullen’s own tangled mess of emotions not helping her read him, as she is usually able to. He can feel a wall between them, and how much it bothers her.

“Hm. Well, can I tell you something, then?” she asks, leaning in closer. Cullen wants to take a step back, but she tightens her grasp on his hand, keeping him still and, “It’s a secret. Lend me your ear.”

“Are you going to scream something about spindleweed? Again?” he murmurs, swallowing nervously for whatever reason, but leaning in.

She scoffs, but once he’s close enough, she tells him in the smallest of whispers, “I’m actually magical. Not _mage_ -magical, but magical.”

He snorts, backs up and looking at her skeptically. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean ‘ _that’s it’_?” she pouts. “That is a huge secret I trusted you enough to tell and you’re going to brush it off? I’m offended. You’ve hurt me so deeply I may never recover. Find someone else to lead the Inquisition because I cannot.” Cullen rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine. I’ll prove it.”

“You’re going to prove it?”

“I’m gonna prove it. Ready?”

Cullen snickers, his initial discomfort and confusion swept aside by her easy humour, “I’m ready. This should be interesting.”

She rolls her sleeves up to her elbows, shivers at the mountain air momentarily before flexing and wiggling her fingers and then suddenly a rush of red and green appears in his face – tulips pulled from thin air. Or her sleeve. Or somewhere tucked into her coat.

“Ta-daaa,” she grins. He’s silent for a moment before he snorts, laughing at her, his sides hurting as he brings a hand up to cover his mouth. “Seriously? You’re _so_ mean, Commander.”

“I-I’m sorry,” he wheezes. She takes one of the tulips and tucks it into the fur of his coat, another in her hair by her ear. The rest, she holds out to him.

“For you,” she grins at him, forgiving him for his offense, it would seem. He raises a brow. “To your smile and laugh. Which are both quite lovely; may they both appear each day.”

He chuckles, shaking his head but takes the bouquet regardless before she excuses herself back to her work. Cullen walks the battlements back to his office as well, ignoring the glances and smiles from soldiers on rotation at the flowers in his hands before he enters his workspace, searching about for a bottle to set them.

Every few moments, every few reports, signatures, and messengers, Cullen looks up, the spot of bright red and green lighting up the room, and he can feel the corners of his lips twitch upward.


	18. Once More

He’s incredibly tense when they lay siege to Adamant. She teases him as they watch their soldiers, murmurs that she’ll need to work the stress out of his back again, but it falls flat, and she knows it. Her comedic timing always was incredibly bad.

Once they’re through the front gate, fighting alongside Hawke and Stroud with Dorian, Varric, and Blackwall at her side, he feels a knot in his stomach when he realizes he can’t go with her, and that this is like Haven all over again.

He tells her the soldiers will do their best to buy her time, but that there are demons up top, attacking their people. She nods, utterly serious for once, tells _him_ to be careful, and to watch their people.

He wants to say something, wants to tell her to come back in one piece, but he doesn’t need to. When he reaches out to grab her wrist, she glances at him over her shoulder, a look of pure mischief and determination on her face as she wiggles her arm free, placing a firm little hand on his shoulder. She and her party run ahead, and he notes a spot of bright yellow in his fur mantle, and pulls it out – a paper tulip.

Cullen doesn’t understand how she manages to sneak these things into his coat, but he scoffs, and anticipates asking her about it once she returns.


	19. Steadfast

Reports of her falling into the Fade a second time reach him. He’s worried, not just because it’s her but because no one should have to go physically into the Fade as much as she does.

She makes it out; all but one person makes it out. He isn’t able to see or speak to her until they return to Skyhold. Even then, there’s too much going on – too many injured, too many lost. He works with Lady Montilyet to return any personal effects to the families of those lost, as well as reparations.

There’s also the matter of the Wardens – untrustworthy to some, an asset and boost to morale to others. Organizing them is her job, something she seems to do without ever being seen. She has messengers coming and going from her tower, sometimes not. For the most part, he thinks she corresponds with Leliana on the matter, though he wishes she would speak to him personally. He misses her, and he worries.

He does gather some information from her inner circle, however, most notably Varric, whom she’s spent most of her time with, if out of sight.

He lost a friend, and though he still has his easy laugh and warm attitude, he mourns. Hawke was important to him, but he knew she would’ve wanted to stay behind anyway. She wouldn’t have let anyone else do so – always the mom, always responsible, at least when she wasn’t being irresponsible or trying to clean up someone else’s mess.

And though she and Cullen never quite saw eye to eye, he mourns her as well. The world is now less with her gone, he knows.

But there isn’t enough time. He works, organizes, makes certain that they will not fall, Adamant had been a very close call, even if they did leave victorious, and so he works, and works, and works.

Eventually he falters, succumbs to exhaustion, his waking nightmares and fears, the lack of rest and his own vision playing tricks on him. He should not be in such a position if he cannot do his part.

So he talks to Cassandra. Well, argues, really.

And then she shows up. Out of the blue, awkwardly out of place, small and tired, but looking for him.

He brushes past her, but she finds him again, enters the door near where he throws his lyrium, nearly hitting her.

He freezes – he almost hit her. But she disregards that. She came for him.

But in a fit of frustration, and perhaps trust, he isn’t certain, he tells her about it. Not in perfect detail, but enough to understand – Ferelden, Kirkwall, the friends he’s lost and the people who died. He _should_ be taking it.

“I should be taking it...”

“This doesn’t have to be about the Inquisition. Is this what you want?”

It isn’t, but he wonders if he can endure it – he fears he cannot, but she believes otherwise.

“You can.”

“... All right.”

She hovers by the doorway again, just like the first time, but doesn’t pretend not to notice his breathing, when he rubs his eyes, then his temples. Out of habit he waits for her to leave, watching from the corner of his eye as he breathes in and out, focusing his mind on something other than his pain. He knows she likes to vanish into thin air, or rather, stealth, so he watches.

“Take care, Commander.”

And just like that: gone.


	20. Near at Hand

She hovers when she’s concerned.

He finds it rather... cute. He also finds himself appreciating it. Aside from Mia, he hasn’t had anyone truly looking out for him. Not lately. Even when he doesn't need her to be there, she is, and it's nice to have someone for support.

And for what it’s worth, she likes who he is now. He’s doubtful at first, honestly doesn’t believe she should but, “I’m serious.”

He notices that her smile isn’t as sweet as it is reflective. There’s a sense of... curiosity and astonishment, analyzing him, trying to figure something out he can’t quite read. It’s not bad, he knows that much.

But he does know that she cares for him, respects him, and from the way she beams at him, is proud of him and what he’s accomplished. And he’s glad.


	21. Sweat

They take to sparring together once again, when they have the time, and at her request.

She uses the same sword as last time, claiming to have gone out of practice the more she shoots her arrows, which Cullen does not mind. He did want to observe her fighting technique some more, after all, which seems to have gotten trickier, or perhaps she decided not to hold back when skirting the rules. Cullen finds this interesting, as well as useful, as she’s taken to observing prowlers while out in the field.

But they practice harder this time – with more force, and she’s sweating, panting, peeling off her tunic and reducing herself to a flimsy little black shirt that’s loose enough to blow in the wind, drenched in enough sweat to stick to her body in all the right (or perhaps worst) ways, doesn’t even cover her midriff and Cullen... well. Suddenly the mountain air does nothing to cool him down.

She is toned, has her own muscle and is... taut in other places, with enough curves to have a few people stopping to take a second look, what with the way her sweat just seems to glisten, and legs to keep them for a third. Cullen himself is too distracted watching the rise and fall of her chest with every heavy breath before she lunges at him. He parries, but she grabs his wrist, pulling him forward before turning her body, pushing herself up against him and using her weight to shove him to the ground, sitting over him to keep him in place.

She’s panting, breathless, sweaty, and grinning on top of him, and for whatever reason he doesn’t possess the capacity to fight out of her grasp, which he could do quite easily.

He can practically hear Leliana smirking from a distance.


	22. Touch Me Like You Do

She loves touching.

He’s seen her give Sera piggyback rides all over Skyhold, no doubt some rumors circulated regarding that as well, and the way she interacts with Dorian – she’s all over him.

But with Cullen?

She takes him by the hand, drags him out to eat with her. She touches his arm, bumps shoulders with him when she’s being playful. She doesn’t jump on his back like she does Bull, of course.

And there was that time with the back massage he both doesn’t and wants to forget.

But when he’s in pain, she comes running. Doesn’t matter what she’s doing or who she’s with, she wants to be there for him.

She hugs him. She’s still not sure of what else there is she can do – she brought him some teas, some extra herbs and medicine from the her clan to help him, offered to strategically stick him with needles to relieve the pain or use hot rocks... a lot of things.

He’s content with just holding her, or perhaps the other way around. He prefers her arms wrapped around him, tiny and elven, or fingers securely locked between his. He likes burying his face in her hair until his breathing is even again, the scent, some honey and floral mix Vivienne likely procured for her from Val Royeaux mixed with her perpetual state of smelling like grass, trees, elfroot, and a little bit of smoke and metal, likely from all the time she spends in the undercroft.

And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the way she feels in his arms, too. She fits perfectly up against his chest.

Cullen wants to work through the pain, and he more than appreciates her being there to help him. _“I like to feel useful,”_ she told him when he asked once, _“and I care about you.”_

And for however long after, she stays with him on his office floor, hand in hand, her head on his shoulder. He doesn’t need to hold onto her anymore, an anchor in her own way, but she stays until he tells her he’ll be all right.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Better, thank you,” he breathes. “You don’t need to stay.”

“I want to.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“If you say so. But you know where I’ll be,” she purses her lips. Before she gets up to leave, however, she lifts their hands, unlaces her fingers between his, takes off his glove and presses her lips feather lightly against his knuckles, her gaze locked on his, tender and caring. She gives his shoulder a squeeze, and disappears out the door.


	23. The Morning After

The next morning she’s back to being perky, which he rather likes – it suits her.

“Gooooooood morning, Commander,” she beams. He smiles, bows his head. She lowers her voice, tone going softer, “How’re you feeling?”

“Better. Thank you again for being there.”

“Of course,” she smiles. He blushes, flexing the fingers of the hand which she’d kissed, and it’s her turn to get flustered. “Sorry, did I overstep?”

“N-no, I just–“

“Inquisitor, Commander,” Leliana interrupts, stepping into the war room, “Shall we begin?"

Leliana sends him a knowing look he immediately disregards, turning his ears to Josephine, and his eyes to Lavellan across from him. She, of course, catches him staring, and smiles.

It’s different this time around – not like the first or the ones after, which were friendly and understanding or playful and teasing. This one feels more intimate, and though Cullen can’t quite place what she means by it, he finally knows what he feels from it.


	24. Confirmation

They are in fact, very close now.

Cullen doesn’t know what to really make of this development.

She is decidedly more affectionate or forward with him. He cannot say why. She starts friend-flirting with him, or perhaps she always had and only recently has he taken notice of it, finally establishing where they stand, or rather how he feels. But she friend-flirts with Dorian and Varric all the time, as well as Cassandra, who has complained about it on various occasions.

But Cullen thinks that when she does something such as bat her lashes at him, say his name with a slight shift in inflection, bites her lip and smiles, or wiggles her eyebrows both playfully and suggestively when she catches him staring at her across the war table, she truly means it this time.

Or it might just be him hoping for it to mean something.

“Varric, you’d say that the Inquisitor is rather affectionate for a military leader, would you not?”

“There’s also some green magical shit on her hand, or are you just picking that one up, too?”

Cullen rolls his eyes.

“Has she ever made a pass at you Varric, I mean.”

“Are you trying to file a complaint?” the dwarf chuckles. “That one hits on anything that _moves_. Almost. Asked me if she could touch my chest hair five times in the last two weeks. Or did you miss the part where she bats her lashes and tilts her head just a bit to get your attention because she knows it’s cute?”

“I’ve caught that.”

“Don’t worry about it, Curly.”

“Worry about what?”

“Her. She does that. She’s a rogue. We do that.”

“Do what, exactly?”

“Can’t tell you,” Varric smirks, looking up from his papers. “Trade secret.”


	25. Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

She’s consulting him about something related to sending Templars to Tevinter but he can’t seem to pay attention. No doubt Leliana spotted her leaving the rotunda and heading straight for his office and is watching them now.

He, in turn, is watching her as she turns the matter over in words. The way she brushes a lock of her hair from her face, re-scans the report in her hand, licks her lips in frustration and sighs.

“With so few Templars left it seems the wiser choice to keep them here in case we run into abominations, what with rifts popping up everywhere. Of course, sending an assassin only sounds better in theory since we don’t really know how Tevinter does things. I could consult Dorian again, but you were a Templar, and you’ve seen him fight, yes? Do you think you could take him?”

“You want me to fight Dorian? What?”

She tilts her head to the side, bites her lip when she smiles and suddenly his office is a bit warmer than usual. Is she flirting with him? No, she always does this. Right? No, yes. She always does this. Varric even almost confirmed it. Sort of.

“Are you okay, Cullen?”

His name somehow sounds different on her lips. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but it’s likely has something to do with the fact that she’ll practically sing his title as commander at him, in public and when they’re alone in response to him always referring to her by her title, even when she insisted he call her by, at the very least, her last name. Inquisitor makes her feel old, she had said.

No, she’s said his name countless times. It’s not different; he has to be making it up. That, or Leliana’s teasing. She’s not... she can’t be interested in him.

“I can come back later if you’re feeling a little out of sorts.”

It’s ordinary concern from a friend to a friend. They’ve only ever been friends. She teases him, flirts a little if he can even call it that, but even then, she flirts a little with everyone from what he hears. Again: if he can even call it that. And even if she did harbor something for him, what would he do then? Sure, he likes her as more than a friend, yes, he dreamt of her intimately on a few occasions, naturally he likes the way she feels in his arms, but she’s the Inquisitor. His superior, and they’re at war. It’s not the time. Of course, were they all to die, there wouldn’t be any _other_ time so maybe he should... no. He definitely shouldn’t. It’s inappropriate. Utterly inappropriate.

“Or utterly silent.”

“Uh, no,” Cullen finds himself stammering, trying to piece together what she had said. “Forgive me, I don’t know where my head is today.”

“I can help you find it if you want,” she offers, sitting on his desk. “Something on your mind?”

He knows she wouldn’t judge him. Lightly nudge him and joke a little, but not enough to get him flustered. She knows him well enough by now, and he her, to know when to draw the line with jokes. He appreciates that she does.

“I... we’re... friends, right?”

Hoo boy.

She gasps, utterly horrified, as if he’d just kicked a puppy. “Do you mean to tell me that this entire time, all these conversations, working together, sparring, we’ve not been friends? I... _Commander_! Why I never!”

“Very funny.”

“Creators, I think I may very well perish this instant at your duplicity!” she cries dramatically, one hand clutching her chest, the other across her forehead as though she’d come down with a fever. “Get Dorian! Tell him... tell him _he’s_ always been my favourite!”

“Anything else?” Cullen rolls his eyes, smirking as she slowly falls down on his desk, her breathing more and more laboured.

“Just that... my only regret was that I never,” she whimpers, coughing helplessly, “... never got the chance to touch Varric’s chest hair...”

“Please don’t go,” he says, attempts to play along, but nevertheless snickering.

“You’ve always been very dear to me, Cullen, and you hold a special place in my heart. I care for you deeply. Perhaps more than I should,” she whispers, staring off into the distance and taking one of his hands in both of hers. “I’m just sorry you never realized it before. Goodbye, cruel world... Blame the Commander!”

And then she dies on his desk.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Bouncing back from the beyond in an instant, she grins at him, giving his hand a tight squeeze. “Of course. Did someone tell you otherwise? Did _I_ make it seem otherwise?”

“No, no.”

“Did Cole say something to you?” she eyes him as he gives a tug at his hand, helping her off his desk. “He always tells me something every time I go to see him but I haven’t figured all of them out yet.”

“No, it’s... just some gossip.”

“Oh? Did someone create another illustrious tale about us again? Was it naughty?” she asks, clearly amused.

“N-no, just... the same one. Perhaps. It’s difficult to tell.”

Her expression softens. “Do these rumors about us bother you, Cullen? Would you like me to try and–“

“It’s nothing,” he assures her. “So long as I know how you feel about me, that’s all that truly matters.”

“Well, in case there’s ever any doubt again,” she says, placing a hand on his, looking him dead in the eyes, “I like you, Cullen. A lot. You’re fun.”

“ _I’m_ fun?” he raises a brow. “I’m sure you’ll find others who disagree.”

“Excuse you, Commander, but I just died in your arms,” she protests. “I don’t die in the arms of just anyone.”

“Do you actually die in the arms of others frequently?”

“Just once,” she responds. “I was six, and it was my grandfather. He buried me up to my neck and waited until I came back.”

“And how long did that take?” Cullen smirks.

“Two hours, but that’s not my point,” she tells him. “You played along. _I_ think you’re fun.”

“Then that’s all that matters,” he smiles. It may not have been precisely what he intended to find out, but her friendship means a great deal to him. “Thank you. And I apologize for asking. I should have known.”

“I disagree. You can ask me anything, Cullen,” she grins. “But I can remind you that you’re my second favourite every day, if you’d like. Dorian still wins, though. Actually, maybe my third. I like Varric quite a bit, too.”

He scoffs.


	26. Very Serious

The end of each day becomes Cullen’s favourite time of day. It used to be that the Commander would work late. How late, he wasn’t quite certain, sometimes until dusk, if he had the energy for it. He would steal food from the kitchen on his own, burn through several candles and avoid sleep – avoid his dreams.

At least, that was his routine when she wasn’t around.

True, occasionally he dreamt of her – with more frequency as of late – hopeless little fancies his mind would conjure, waking him with a flush across his face and his heart pounding so loudly, or perhaps she’d casually invade his nightmares, tossing things from windows in Ferelden’s Circle, or bring him flowers amidst the chaotic events in Kirkwall – red tulips during the qunari invasion, and plucking daisy petals off to the side in the Gallows, perched somewhere high, legs swinging casually before she spots him, and waves, then jumps down and places a crown of daisies she hadn’t plucked clean atop his head with a grin.

But when she’s gone, he has one less thing to smile about. He knows his duty, as well as hers, but... well, he misses her – her light, her laughter, and that energy. When she isn’t around to distract, help or simply spend time with him, his thoughts fall back to several darker memories he’d rather forget.

“Knock, knock.”

Cullen chuckles. “Who’s there?”

To his surprise, however, the door to his right opens slowly on its own, her soft laughter echoing through his tower, almost eerily. He turns, side to side, scans the ceiling even to search for her.

“I don’t see you for weeks and you can’t bother with a proper hello,” Cullen jabs, a smile on his lips.

“That’s because...” she murmurs by his ear, suddenly appearing and startling him, “I couldn’t think of a good punch line. I was hoping it would hit me as I got going, but alas: no punch line for you today.”

“How will I ever go on.”

“I don’t know. But fret not, dear Commander, for I shall be here to save you.”

“My hero,” he rolls his eyes. “Did you only just return?”

“Mhm,” she nods, stretching her arms and stifling a yawn. “But I felt compelled to see you.”

“D-did you?” he clears his throat. “I... any particular reason?”

“What, a girl just isn’t allowed to dreadfully miss her handsome commander? So much so that she simply must see him upon returning to her fortress? Must she have an ulterior motive as to see him with such haste?” she pouts, sending him a side long glance. “I also have something for you. It’s important, but here’s an order: send some people to look into it, and get some rest. I don’t want you working into the night, understood?”

Before he can respond, she places a hand on his arm, offers one supportive smile with a stern look before disappearing, the door previously left open closing seemingly on its own.

He finds a small stack of parchment folded together with a green string tied around in on his desk, along with another yellow paper tulip on top. Hers, misdirection guiding his eyes one way while she leaves things behind.

He unravels the string, smiles as he opens a drawer and places her gift inside, filled with so many others before shutting it. Turning his attention back to the parchment, he unfolds them, scanning her reports and scrawled notes, some incomprehensive, others with keys and legends, a few bits written in what he thinks is elven, and others that don’t even look like a language. Finally, his eyes settle on one thing:

Samson.


	27. Business Hours

It only takes a little over a week (though it felt much longer to Cullen) to find Samson’s hideout. He insists on going, and she doesn’t outright disagree, though she does voice concerns. He voices his own, as well. She smiles fondly when he tells her he would rest better knowing he’s at her side.

When they go, Cassandra, Dorian, and Varric complete the team. He’s fought alongside the Seeker before, and once with Varric against Meredith. He’s uncertain of Dorian and Lav’s tactics, but he believes he can fall into place without issue.

And he’s right.

All she tells him is to “do your thing” with a smile, but with Cassandra. Dorian would handle the rest, while she and Varric focus their efforts elsewhere – he need not mind them.

When they arrive at the temple, he and the Seeker charge forward, fighting perfectly in sync.

Fighting red templars again puts him on edge, though he does not falter. Everything else seems to fall into place perfectly – Cassandra is powerful, Dorian has their backs while Lav and Varric seemingly dispose of all other threats – the red templars on higher ground, the one on his left that almost hit him, the stalkers and knights.

Cullen does not get the chance to check on her on the battlefield amidst the fighting, but he does hear Dorian thank his best and only friend –and remind her that she’s his best and only friend– for the save a few moments before, to which she responds with a smile and easy laugh before taking point.

Upon entering the temple, Varric steps up next to their fearless leader before the two of them take a full draw each, dropping two enemies, piercing them through their skulls. Dorian creates a barrier around the lot of them before Cullen joins Cassandra to fight.

Their battles are clean – too clean. When they finish off, when she and Dorian are looting templar bodies for red lyrium samples for Dagna to study, Cullen speculates that outside her inner circle, no one quite knows how much thought she puts into anything.

Samson is nowhere to be found. Instead, they find Maddox. Cullen is disturbed to say the least, almost angry at his loyalty. And though their mission is something of a failure, they do salvage some things, and resolve to send Maddox off properly. He deserves better.

When they return to Skyhold, Cullen takes deep breath – his job comes first. His feelings, however angry or undefined and bubbling, can wait until the Inquisitor is gone. He’d rather not have her see him in such a state. She’s already seen enough.

But after his report, and days later after Dagna creates something to counter Samson, she doesn’t leave his office immediately to other duties. Instead, she rounds his desk, her hand hovers above his in hesitance before she places it atop his, peering at him curiously.

She knows it bothers him – the whole thing puts him at unease and brings back memories he’d rather forget, but she doesn’t say so. She waits for him to say or do something instead. It’s his to choose.

He sighs, relaxes his shoulders just slightly before placing his other hand on top of hers, and gives it a squeeze.


	28. Protagonist

“I’m concerned,” she announces upon his entry into the library. He’s not certain of how she knows it’s him, and he still has trouble understanding just how good her hearing is. He thought he was being quiet.

“And why might that be?”

“Varric’s been brainstorming.”

“For?”

“I’m not sure, hence my concern,” she murmurs, seemingly finished with a tome before setting it aside, and pulling another in front of her. “He could be writing a book.”

“And would that be so terrible?” Cullen asks, taking a seat on the edge of the stone table.

“He said before that stories like these, ones with heroes, don’t end well,” she says thoughtfully, seemingly turning her own words over in her mind. “I’ve been reading –lots of romantic tales of dashing heroes and classic literature, mostly Orlesian so I can pretend to be _cultured_ for more than five minutes.”

“And?”

“There’s a surprising number of books that were banned due to sexual or scandalous content.”

“I... see.” He really doesn’t.

“Then I got bored and read some of Varric’s books, and others,” she continues. “If he’s writing a story about me, I really hope I don’t die.”

“I’m sure you’ll find more ways to cheat death,” he smiles, placing a fond hand on her shoulder. She rests her head upon it, sighing.

“Fingers crossed.”


	29. Hopeless Romantic

“Did you leave anyone behind in Kirkwall?” she asks, losing yet another game of chess, and passing him a report.

“No. I fear I made few friends there, and my family’s in Ferelden.”

She quirks a brow, “No one special caught your interest?”

“...not in Kirkwall.”

She seems to take his comment seriously, her question very much out of the blue like any other question of hers, but then, “No one? Did _you_ not catch the interest of anyone?”

“If I did, I did not notice or they never brought it to my attention. Why are you suddenly so interested in my personal affairs?” Cullen questions slowly, taking care as to not sound too defensive. If anything, he’s just as curious – why does she want to know?

“I’m interested in everything, Commander. These ears hear a lot of things. Interesting things,” she grins mischievously. “Things I might be able to use against people, but keep that to yourself. In truth, I think I saw, and I’m not joking, two of our soldiers elope at night. In the chapel. Or at least they were sleeping with one another. And then I realized: the world could be ending.”

“And so you thought...?”

“Is there anything you’d want to do before the end? In the event that we fail, of course.”

“I don’t believe we will.”

“But we could,” she says in a low tone. “Do you ever think about what the rest of your life would be after all this?”

“I hadn’t considered. Have you?”

“No,” she replies slowly, as if she’d only just thought about it herself now. “I’m sorry. I was just hoping to compare notes.”

“It’s quite all right,” he offers a smile. “So our soldiers are making love to one another in fear of death?”

“I wish I was having secret scandalous end-of-the-world sex every now and then. Or I wish I had a conspiracy theory to unravel. Or several. Something less complicated than a hole in the sky and a magister who’s three times my size and has a dragon,” she sighs. “What?”

“I – nothing.”

“Is that judgment or curiosity in your eyes? Or are you perhaps volunteering?”

“Curiosity,” he clears his throat. “I never took you for the... occasional sort.”

“Oh?” she smirks. “I don’t strike you as the type to casually sleep with someone for the fun of it?”

“I apologize; I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You haven’t,” she smiles, amused. “But you clearly haven’t been observing me as closely as you think you are, and I know you are.”

“I– uh...“

“If I had the time, I think I’d go out and become hopelessly enamoured with someone this afternoon. Maybe write a hundred sonnets about them while I’m at it and pine from my balcony until the sun sets. Maybe compare them to it.”

Cullen quirks a brow, thankful she changes the subject. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” she grins. “I’m passionate. Call it a character flaw.”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” he smiles gently. “I rather like that you are.”

“Well, you’d be one of the few,” she laughs dryly. “But... I don't know. When I meet someone who's just so... something, I need to know, and once I do, I like to please. It doesn't have to be for very long but, like... I have this  _feeling_. And then I get carried away with it.”

“So you fall in love rather quickly?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily call it _love_ ,” she makes a face at the word. “It’s passion, I think. I mean, what is _love_ , exactly? In words.”

Cullen takes a moment to consider how he could describe it when he realizes he’s never been in love himself. At least he doesn’t think so, “I... see your point.”

“You don’t need someone to complete you or whatever people call it to like them, right?” she offers. “I mean, I like people. A lot. It’s not hard for me to find something in anyone to like. And when I do... I dunno, I want to make sure they know. I want them to feel like they’re special, because they are. I want to make them happy; I want to see them smile every second of every day, because it’s such a beautiful thing, their smile. I want to know everything about them because they’re one of a kind, and I want them to know how much they mean to me because I probably don’t go a single day without thinking about them. I want to help them however I can, I want to ease any burdens. I want to be in their life, in any capacity because I can’t go without knowing them – I _need_ to. I want them to know every little detail that I adore about them because it’s just so... _them_ , y’know?”

“And... you’re saying you don’t believe in love?” he asks skeptically.

“I’m not saying I don’t, but I just don’t see what’s wrong with liking people very easily,” she corrects. “I mean, you’re saying what I think sounds like love, yes? But that would mean I fall in love with a great deal of people regularly, and that doesn’t make sense to most people – you can’t fall in love that much that frequently, according to them.”

“I must concede your point,” he leans back in his chair. “I also have a feeling there’s a story behind this perspective of yours.”

“One I don’t feel like sharing with you,” she responds coyly, “today. But... you don’t think less of me because of this, do you Cullen?”

“N-no, of course not,” he stammers. “I just... feel somewhat differently, I suppose. I’ve never looked at it the way you do.”

“Holding out hope to fall in love one day?” she smiles gently.

“I would not be opposed to it.”

“Well, then I better get working on Corypheus. Wouldn’t want you to die before you fall for someone, get married, and have like, ten kids.”

“Oh, you are absolutely hilarious.”

“And... _you’re_ blushing. Creators, do you like someone?” she gasps. “Is it Cassandra? Because... I’ve heard a few things around the barracks, aaaaaand I happen to know a few dirty secrets that belong to our dear Seeker, if you’re interested.”

“Wha– Maker, no,” Cullen rubs his temples, exhaling. “I’m not discussing with you.”

“Aw, I thought we were closer than that,” she grins, snickering. “But really, if you like someone, I’m happy for you. Unless you haven’t made a move and you’re just pining right now, letting them haunt your every waking thought, probably showing up in your dreams, then not nearly as happy.”

“Maker’s breath, you’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious!” she exclaims. “I mean, come on. If we were gonna die tomorrow, wouldn’t you want that person to know you like them today?”

“What about you?” he clears his throat, trying to meet her gaze.

“I’ll be okay if I don’t have any secret scandalous end-of-the-world sex any time soon. I’ve survived quite a while so far,” she jokes. “I have good friends, I’m around good people. I’m actually having fun despite everything going on, and I’m really doing something. The only thing that would make it perfect would be if I see you happy.”

“Why is my happiness so important to you?”

“Because, and I said this before I died dramatically in your arms, Cullen: I like you a lot,” she frowns slightly. “You’re so dedicated to your job. You deserve to have something for yourself. I'd give it to you if I could.”

Cullen is at a loss for words. He’s tempted to just tell her that it’s _her_ – she’s the one occupying his waking thoughts and showing up in his dreams, but he’s not certain of what he wants with her, and he’s not like her; he can’t just act based on how he feels, he just... well, he doesn’t know. And he would rather not take the risk, lest he ruin his relationship with her, and he values her friendship a great deal.

Her shoulders slouch. She seems disappointed by his silence, and so she offers him a smile before getting up from her seat.

“I should get back to all the other things I’ve been avoiding.”


	30. Embrasse-moi

Rainy days tend to bring out the worst of his pains.

Cullen’s mind echoes about, any words he’s read quiver, his vision blurring ever so often, his head heavy with pain, and his legs sluggish.

Exiting the templar tower, Cullen makes his way down to the garden, where he might move into the great hall, his office likely wet from the rain and the hole he’s yet to have fixed, or perhaps the chapel for a few moments to rest.

The rain begins to fall harder, and Cullen pulls his coat over his head. Quickening his pace, he slips slightly on the stairs, his head reeling from the fast movement, and turns in the wrong direction, finding himself heading instead for the storage room filled with furniture.

He doesn’t find it to be a bad place to rest, and too tired to turn around, Cullen makes for the room, only to spot a pair of small muddy feet sticking out the doorway, toes occasionally wiggling.

“Inquisitor?”

“Commander?” she sticks her head out past the doorway. “What are you doing in the rain?”

“What are you doing in the storage room?”

“Spending time with the furniture. They get dreadfully lonely out here, not being used,” she responds as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, but rises from her seat and rushes to his side, helping him into the room. “Are you all right?”

“Tired,” he replies as she removes one of the sheets from the couches within. She takes a seat next to him, legs pulled up to her chest, ignoring the mud she tracks in, watching him carefully. Cullen takes a few moments, closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing before opening them again, spotting the pile of books and parchment by what he assumes was her seat by the door. “Were you working in here?”

“Not so loud, Commander. Can’t let people know I actually do my work and appear competent or some other.”

“Not fond of working in your quarters? Or perhaps that library below Josephine’s office? More secretive that way.”

“Why, Commander, do you want me to leave? I’m offended,” she jabs, bumping his shoulder with hers, “In truth, I simply like the sound of the rain. Skyhold’s walls are so... wall-y. And the garden’s closer. I like my trees.”

“Wall-y?”

“I knew you’d understand,” she winks. “Sometimes I need to wiggle my toes. And besides, who else would drag you in here and talk your ear off?”

Cullen chuckles, “I must concede your point.”

“Would you like me to get you anything?”

“No, thank you,” he smiles, placing a hand on her knee before she can get up. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“Before, our discussion about... your concern about me, and when I didn’t say anything you–“

“I’m not mad at you,” she giggles. “I don’t think I could ever be mad at you, Cullen. Frustrated by your lack of initiative? Absolutely. But never mad. You don’t have to apologize. I did take a joke too far in the first place.”

“Y-you didn’t. I just...” he starts, but a yawn sneaks up on him, stopping him short.

“Sometimes I nap in here,” she muses, resting her chin on her knees, “I still have some work to do, but if that look on your face means anything, I can wake you up in a bit, if you’d like. The rain won’t be stopping any time soon, and Skyhold won’t fall apart if you take an hour or two to yourself, I swear.”

“So you’ve said,” he chuckles, mind going back to the time he’d almost hit her with lyrium. Not his proudest moment, nor the few after, but she’d been there for him, ready and eager, and Skyhold didn’t fall apart the first time she’d told him to take a few hours to himself.

His eyes droop before he can object. She gets up from her seat, fetching her books and parchment, moving over to sit closer to him as he leans back.

He dreams about her again, this time dancing in the rain just outside the storage room. She is laughing, spinning around in circles, digging her toes into the mud before extending a hand out to him, urging him to join her. He’s standing in the doorway, leaning on the frame before she runs up to him, takes both his hands in hers and pulls him forward, kissing him, then taking steps back, lips still on his, guiding him into the garden under the rain.

He wakes to her voice, calling his name several times gently before he comes to. When he does, he’s only half the mind to realize that he’s leaning in, dream or no dream, ready to kiss her before stopping short, his cheeks burning up.

She does nothing, however – does not pull back hastily, uncomfortable by their closeness, nor close the distance between them. Instead, she watches him with patience and curiosity, a small smile on her lips.

Cullen is frozen in place. He’s not certain on whether or not he should push farther. He wants to, certainly he’s dreamt of it, wondered how her lips would taste or feel on a number of occasions, but... what if she pulls away? What if she only considers him a friend?  She’s also his superior – it would be incredibly awkward and–

“The rain stopped,” she finally says, in a soft tone with her eyes downcast, seemingly focused on something else. She then looks up at him. “How are you feeling?”

“Fully rested,” he says quietly, standing up and holding out a hand for her. “Shall we?”

“We shall.”


	31. Challenge Accepted

Cullen feels as though he’s taking advantage of her friendship. Indeed, when he spends time with her, unbeknownst to her (at least he’s fairly certain, anyhow) he’s enjoying her company in a rather different way. That very fact leaves him with an unsavory, sharp, and sinful taste in his mouth.

He likes her _more_ – she isn’t just talking to him anymore, he’s listening to the very sound of her voice; it’s light, young, mischievous, playful, sweet, and infectiously happy. When she laughs, either at his expense or at something he’s said in return, he commits the sounds to memory, lets it haunt his mind hours after she’s left his company. When she smiles, _Maker_ , her smiles, he keeps them, every single half smile or grin or anything, in his mind, and they appear alongside the rest of her in his dreams.

When she touches him, and Cullen feels both horrible and at peace with this, he wants her to stay right where she is, be it in his arms to comfort him or leave her hand between his.

“You’re looking rather cheery today,” she notes. “What happened to you?”

“I–sorry?” he glances up from his report, watches as she tosses a grape into the air and catches it in her mouth. “Can’t I be in a good mood for no reason?”

“I’m not saying you can’t, I’m simply noting that it’s quite the oddity is all,” she grins. “Not that I’m complaining. It becomes you.”

“The oddity?” Cullen quirks a brow.

“I keep my ears to the ground,” she informs him. “I’ve heard people say you’re terrifying on a number of occasions. Also intimidating and very serious.”

“And what would you make of me?”

“In my experience you’ve always been enjoyable company, my dear Commander,” she smiles, sliding another grape into her mouth. “Always. Which is why I find it odd, but I suppose I’m not a soldier or messenger, running in the opposite direction in fear of your wrath.”

Cullen never paid much mind to what people have said about him, but it he must admit, finding out is rather... interesting.

“I find fascinating that they would word it as such, since I find you to be quite gentle,” she continues. He blushes, and of course she catches it. “Did I say something out of line?”

“N-no, just that... when you come to my side when I’m having a rather... difficult time, I always think I squeeze too hard.”

“You take care that I don’t get crushed between your armor,” she giggles. “That counts as gentle. At least to me.”

He chuckles. “If you say so.”

“And your voice – you’re always so... what’s the word I’m looking for? Soft? Gentle?” she murmurs, mostly to herself, tapping her chin thoughtfully with one finger before finally she stops. “Ah. _Intimate_. You sound more intimate when speaking, at least with me compared to our soldiers.”

“I have to,” he returns, bringing a fist to his mouth and clearing his throat. “I don’t think anyone would take me seriously if I spoke to them as candidly as I do with you.”

“You’d be surprised by what you can accomplish with a sweet smile and a delicate tone,” she smirks. “But I suppose you warrior sorts aren’t keen on what we rogues do.”

“Oh? What exactly? Manipulation?” he asks, leaning forward with a vested interest, flustered feelings cast aside so easily in the face of her joking, something he is grateful for.

“ _Charm_ , actually,” she grins, moving around his desk and leaning on it before him. “Keep this to yourself, but we work around obstacles, not through. If I wanted to get you to do something for me, I’d probably find a way to convince you that you want to do it for yourself, instead of giving you an order.”

“And does that actually work?”

“Well, it depends on how I go about it and what I want you to do for me,” she responds. “Care for a demonstration?”

“Why not. Though I doubt you could compel me to do something now that you’ve told me.”

“All right,” she smiles, “any suggestions?”

“You’re going to let me choose?”

“Unless you can’t think of anything, I’ve got something up my sleeve.”

“You’re awfully confident.”

“Confidence is key,” she smirks. “So?”

“I’ve nothing. You go ahead.”

“Hm, I’ve got two,” she tells him. Her delivery is devious, and Cullen can’t help but feel nervous. “First one: I’m going to convince you to feed me a grape.”

“And the second?”

“They say patience is a virtue, Commander,” she jabs. “And that one requires a bit more time. It’s very top secret, but you’ll know it when you see it.”

“All right then,” Cullen says, leaning back into his seat and taking her bowl of grapes, eating one himself. “I highly doubt you’ll succeed.”

“We should turn this into a bet,” she muses, then clears her throat. “Cullen, would be so kind as to feed me a grape?”

He snorts, somewhat to cover up the choking he was to do at hearing her ask him that, eating another grape. “That’s it?”

“You wound me.”

“I half expected you to go into stealth or something of the sort,” he chuckles, removing another from the stem. As he lifts his hand, however, she moves forward, leaning in closely as he brings the grape to his lips. He stops short, heart pounding in his chest as her mouth opens, tongue just slightly slipping past her teeth, her small fingers coming up to wrap around his as he holds the single grape, loosening his hold on the fruit, and dropping it into her mouth by just a fraction.

Cullen feels as though he might need to pray several times over later tonight – watching her eat a single grape is positively unholy. He can still feel her breath on his fingers, even through his gloves. She chews agonizingly slow, eyes having fluttered shut, a soft little cross between a hum and a moan escaping her as she swallows, equally as slow, before opening her eyes and peering at him as if she didn’t just eat something from his hand. Had he not stopped, Cullen believes she likely would have just eaten it from his very mouth. The thought leaves him quite hot and bothered.

“Told you,” she sings. Cullen clears his throat, her teasing bringing him back to the fact that she didn’t.

“I did not,” he protests. “You ate it from my hand.”

“I distinctly remember you feeding me,” she says triumphantly. “You were even watching with such a vested interest. Anything else you’d like to see me put into my mouth?”

“I-I... you,” Cullen stammers, exhaling. He takes a grape, holds it out to her clearly this time. “If I was going to feed you I’d hold it out to you. A-and I wasn’t watching you, you practically took my finger into your m–“

She snatches the grape from his fingers this time, much quicker than before, and with her teeth. She chews at an ordinary pace, eyes on him, smirking.

“You fed me this time,” she giggles. Cullen glares at her, still flustered.

“Very clever.”

“Thank you,” she bows her head. “And I’m sorry. Was that too far?”

“I – no. I consider us to be quite close,” he breathes. “You simply caught me off-guard.”

“Oh?” she ponders, seemingly lighting up at his words. “Good.”

“Good to what?”

“Good to both.”


	32. Press Start

“Working on your aim?” she hollers from the battlements, passing an apple between her hands. Cullen looks up, spots her sliding down the railing, making her way to him as he releases the arrow in his hand, almost hitting the centre of the target several feet away.

“You make it look terribly easy,” he shakes his head. She giggles, a devilish little grin on her lips as he hands her the bow and she tosses him the apple. She takes an arrow, readies herself before firing and pierces his shot seemingly without any effort, or even so much as a hard look at where he hit as he finishes taking a bite, chews, and swallows. “You love showing me up at this, don’t you?”

“Do you have time for a game?”

“Depends on whether or not you intend to cheat.”

“That you still suspect me of such behavior wounds me, Commander,” she laughs, eyes meeting his. They stare for a moment, a light and playful smile on her lips before she tears her gaze away. Cullen clears his throat. “The apple, if you will.”

“If fruits had feelings, I’m sure they’d despise you,” he says as he tosses it back to her. She hums as their gazes lock once more, only this time she takes a slow bite where he’d done so not a moment before. Cullen swallows, suddenly a little parched.

“Get ready.”

“What are the rules?”

“Hit the apple and I’ll tell you.”

“On top of your head or...?” he muses, anticipating some complication.

“I was thinking mid-air,” she says, motioning for him to draw.

“I don’t–“

“You will,” she says lightly, and with such certainty, taking a few steps back and throwing the apple a surprisingly great distance straight into the air. “Trust me.”

The wire tenses as he draws, eyes on the red falling closer and closer. He aims, tracking the apple as it comes, but she shakes her head thoughtfully, takes a step closer to him and curls one set of her fingers around his wrist, the other at the elbow of his other arm, guiding his aim lower.

“Wait for it...”

His back muscles tighten as she weaves her fingers between his, loosening his grip.

“Exhale,” she murmurs, “and relax your hand.”

The arrow slips through their fingers and Cullen thinks they’re to miss, the arrow firing off before he intended, but to his surprise it pierces the bitten fruit before it hits the ground, both the apple and arrow lobbed into the trunk of a nearby tree.

“Nice shot.”

“So what are we playing today?” he asks.

“I never said when and where, Commander,” she muses. “Soon, though.”

“Oh? At dawn? A duel, perhaps?” he quirks a brow, half expecting her to bring tree branches instead of swords. Or grapes. He tries to keep the mood light, lest they fall back into several instance of silence which, for Cullen, are uncomfortable and unnerving, as he’s left to hear his own thoughts – thoughts about her, doubts, second guessing, shaming, and longing.

“Mhm... you’ll know it when you see it,” she says coyly.

“You’re awfully cryptic today,” he shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. “Will you at least tell me the rules, then?”

“Why, Commander, you disappoint me. After all this time you should know by now,” she murmurs, sinfully low, and in a way he didn’t know she could – breathy, enticing in its mystery and almost seductive were it not so mischievous, drawing him in, stealing all his attention from everything around him. She bites her lip while drawing something on his breastplate with her finger, then taps the tip of his nose, “when _I_ play, there are no rules.”

She saunters off this time, doesn’t disappear immediately like she usually does, and Cullen thinks she’s fully aware of him watching her hips move as she makes her way back inside. Something else also crosses his mind, and he’s inclined to panic – his stomach fluttering, heart pounding, and cheeks burning up. She wouldn’t let him watch her leave, walking with a bit more of a show, intentionally leaving herself in his sight, touching him the way she did, fingers between his in a way that was so intimate yet casual, standing so close, and publicly, speaking to him in secretive tones for his ears alone, so she must– Maker’s breath.

She _knows_.


	33. Round One

In retrospect, Cullen realizes that he was terribly obvious the time he almost kissed her in the storage room – he’s certain she figured him out then, or at the very least, suspected something. She knew, but did nothing, and said nothing. The next time they’re in the same room together, she’s back to being perky and bubbly, as if she didn’t call him out on his, well... his _crush_ on her, and didn’t murmur something so... so scandalous to him that he still gets flustered every time he thinks about it.

Technically she said nothing. _Technically_ , all she did was propose a game without rules, one which he would supposedly know when he sees it. Cullen thinks he knows it – the way she said every word was not loaded with her typical brand of cheerfulness.

No, what she said was low, devilish, surprising, sinfully engaging, and it caught him very off guard. Every free moment he can spare, he thinks of that exchange, and he can hear her voice, so terribly captivating in her delivery. What Varric would not explain to him before suddenly became clear.

_She does that. She’s a rogue. We do that._

_“Can’t tell you,”_ he had said. _“Trade secret.”_

Everything Cole says makes more sense in the long run. Sera says more by saying less. Varric is an artist with words, bending the truth without ever actually lying.

But Lav?

Cullen realizes then that he’ll need to reconsider _everything_ she’s ever said or done, playful or serious. Any of it could have another meaning, potentially more. Any games she played with him, every move, every touch, every riddle, and every gift left behind. Each time she’s done something which Cullen thinks he’s caught could’ve been intentional, and he comes to realize that she might’ve been playing this game long before she invited him to join.

He also doesn’t know what the prize is for winning, which concerns him, but he also looks forward to finding out.

He watches her intently across the war table. Leliana and Josephine are at odds about blackmailing a noble house while Lavellan watches on, both amused and pensive, weighing the options. She glances at Cullen, catches him staring. He doesn’t bother to hide it, doesn’t look away, and instead of making a silly little face at him, she winks.

It’s cute because, well, she’s small, bubbly, playful, and _cute_ , but it’s also...

He swallows. She smiles. It’s wicked, her smile, that twinkle of mischief in her eyes as he watches, and she knows he’s watching. She licks her lips slowly, eyes on the map as she rounds the table to stand next to him.

“They’re going at it quite intently,” she murmurs, leaning in as she usually would, but Cullen feels it – it’s different this time.

“I think...” he starts, inching down to her ear, “that I figured out your game.”

“Tsk, tsk, Commander. Thinking about games while we’re all here, hard at work?” she whispers, turning her head slightly, the tip of her nose just ghostly brushing his chin in the process. “I thought you better than that.”

He inhales sharply, backing away on instinct. She quirks a brow before smiling, but sweetly, _too_ sweetly – too fond and charming and innocent like what he’s used to and Cullen wonders how she can go between deviously flirtatious and precious without even trying.

“I know.”

“Know what?”

Oh, she’s going to keep playing – of course. “That you know.”

“You’re saying you know that I know what, precisely?” she giggles.

“That I know,” he sighs. She’s really going to make him play this?

“So... you know that I know that you know,” she muses. “Hm. Interesting.”

She steps around him to move to their Spymaster and Lady Ambassador. Before she can make it, however, Cullen’s hand reaches out for hers, catching her wrist instead. She slides her fingers between his briefly, her thumb brushing the back of his hand tenderly before pulling back, continuing on her way to Leliana and Josephine. Cullen sighs. She glances over her shoulder at the sound, a look of pure concern as she usually would, but he glares at her, he knows now, and she smirks, bites her lip as her eyes look him over twice before turning her attention to her other advisors as though she didn’t just... _Maker_.

He really wishes he knew the rules.


	34. Multiplayer

So far, Cullen has surmised that the rules of the game they’re playing involves, but is not limited to, bending over tables in such a way that leaves the other utterly compromised and red in the face, pressing one’s body up against the other’s (because they somehow ended up in a tight space between scaffolding) until the other is once again red in the face and dropping everything they’re holding, brushing fingers across the other’s arm discreetly while passing one another somewhere in Skyhold, blowing kisses or winking at the other across the war table, one very, very intimate nose brush, and a lot of moments of close proximity in which a kiss could have been exchanged, long seconds of glancing at each others’ lips without so much as a word.

None of which have been initiated by Cullen himself.

She still does everything else with him as she did before – games, darts, throwing knives, chess, riddles when she’s gone, eating after dark together because they forgot, sparring, paper or real flowers when he least expects it, either tucked into his coat or sitting in his makeshift bottle-vase, waiting for him, hugs or hand squeezing when he’s in pain, teas, herbs, gentle smiles, silly jokes, and endless laughter. He’s not sure how to read all of it, precisely, but he knows – she likes him and cares for him. A lot. That much is certain.

Every now and then, Cullen finds himself wondering: does she perhaps have a genuine interest in him? One beyond friendship? Or is she just teasing him? She is not conventional by any means, playing and twisting them, if anything. What would he say to her if she did? How would he say it?

Aside from a few toothless grins and empty promises of marriage when he was a boy covered in dirt, there had only been one other instance in which he felt something more for someone – Ferelden’s Circle, and he was much younger then. After that, Kirkwall was just... a very dark time for him.

He’d got slightly drunk a few occasions – not on a regular basis to be a routine, but it happened with an unusually rare frequency for him to consider it a _thing_. Each time he finished all his work and was forcibly dismissed for the day he would covertly make rounds on the streets out of uniform, watch for any trouble, find himself in a tavern for a small break and his evening meal. After that he’d end up mildly intoxicated, then soon enough wake up next to the tavern girl he vaguely remembered from the night before, and rush himself back to the Gallows every single time.

It’s not precisely how he pictured his life to be, but at the same time his life wasn’t quite _his_ then. Not like it is now. Back then, he didn’t think anything beyond superficial intimacy would be in his future ever again. When the sky tore open, he _really_ didn’t think it would be in his future.

But then her – his friend, and a good one. He was happy with that, very happy, given their closeness and how easy it was for him to just make a friend in her in the first place. He's not quite certain how or why it festered into something more, he was almost against it in his confusion, but he can't go back now, not with this insistent swelling in his chest. Now, of course, because nothing is ever simple: her game, which is essentially flirting, and Cullen’s always been terrible at it. If anything, he doesn’t even know how, and he’s quite certain he’s never actually flirted with anyone in his entire life.

Well, no, there was one time when he was eight and there was Katherine, the pretty girl next door, but he was _eight_. And also missing his front tooth. He is not eight anymore, and he’s fairly certain eight-year-old flirting styles would not work in this particular situation. Or it might, considering her sense of humour, but he dare not risk it.

So he takes up observing her once more, it’s all he can do really – read her actions, see how he can respond. He considered just speaking to her about it, thought of skipping the teasing and just telling her flatly that he likes her more than just a friend, but... well.

He can barely do that either.

And then, of course, because the Maker’s sense of humour is absolutely cruel, Cullen discovers that he might not be the only player in her game without rules.

He finds her with Solas one day when crossing the walk and taking a shortcut through the rotunda. She’s in that little black shirt again, boots off, wiggling her toes, covered in paints, laughing and smiling and listening with a vested interest in whatever the elven mage has to say. She has questions, countless questions, and he answers them in great detail, ready and willing to sit down and tell her more and more and _more_ , but all of it is for her distinct and large elven ears alone. She hears Cullen, of course, turns around or greets him way up on the scaffolding, eyes trained on him, looking at him the way she always does, setting down her brush, ready to scramble down and talk to him or touch him or anything because she’s so clear about how fond of him she is, but he excuses himself – it’s her time with Solas, and he doesn’t want to intrude. When the elven man calls out to her – “ _Lethallan_ ,” he says so affectionately, and with a breathiness that tells Cullen it means just a fraction more than how he intends it to sound – she turns away from him, faces Solas, but her attention jumps back and forth. Cullen excuses himself, he _really_ doesn’t want to intrude, and the mage receives her undivided attention, something he knows is quite special.

Cullen realizes that he’s never paid much or any attention to her relationships with the members of her inner circle. It was never any of his business, of course, so he thought to be respectful and paid them no mind, but now he likes her, and he wants to know whether or not she feels the way he does, but for someone else. It just— it would be nice to know whether or not his affections would ever be, well... He doesn’t want to hope, only to be disappointed. It has been a long time since he's wanted to be in someone’s company with such earnest.

Another time she’s with Blackwall. He spots her while he’s training new recruits, Lav sparring with a man of many years of experience, as well as someone who knows her style better than he, as she favors him greatly when in the field. She practically dances around him as they spar – she’s fast, creative, and unpredictable while he’s slower and much more powerful. Similar to the instances where Cullen had the pleasure to train with her, she bumps him. They’re playful, she’s laughing breathlessly and he is, too – rough and low, with a smile on his lips that’s just for her – one that Cullen recognizes all too well.

Cullen’s also seen the way she behaves around Josephine. Before, when he didn’t harbor any romantic affection for her, he saw – she hovered by Josephine, murmured compliments by Lady Montilyet’s ear. Josephine is stunning in more ways than one – not just physically, but intellectually, as well as morally. She is good, beautiful, and lovely in every sense. Of course, their dear ambassador is far too proper to simply return such affections so openly, but he’s taken to noticing how close the two of them stand when in the war room, brushing fingers or stealing glances, at least when Leliana isn’t there to create a greater space between them. Even then, however, the Inquisitor finds a way to be closer to the Lady Ambassador – a true romantic perseveres.

Lav is also Sera’s partner in crime and the Jenny loves it. He thinks it only natural, considering her playful nature. Cullen sometimes finds them running around together, screaming and laughing, gasping for air from said laughing, playing and joking and dancing and doing whatever it is that Sera does that he sees when he's not too busy to notice. Sera likes piggyback rides when her feet hurt (“Carry me?” she once crooned with batted lashes and a slight pout). Lav likes to push limits, especially her own. She’ll do anything at least twice she told him once, and then a second time, probably out of habit. Sera likes this about her. They get away with many pranks, some of which are at his expense, more so at Josephine’s, which likely creates some tension between the Lady Ambassador and her Inquisitor.

Bull... is another matter. She’s more physical with him, more than when she trains with Blackwall, sits intimately with Solas for stories, even with Dorian, her best friend with whom she studies with, or Varric, who she almost never leaves Skyhold without, and whose chest hair she’s yet to touch. The Iron Bull has the muscle to pick her up and throw or carry her anywhere (which he’s done), as well as the fitness to snap her in half if she ever ventured to _ride the bull_  as so many people around Skyhold have graciously put it (which... no one is certain of whether he’s done as well). He never took notice of it before, too consumed in his work or flustered when she pays him a visit, but he hears them laughing together one day. She has an easy laugh, nice and warm and light and soft and bubbly because she’s easy to please and so open and casual and friendly and affectionate. Bull has a rather embarrassing sense of humour (at least according to Krem), and so it seems only natural the two would just spend time together – bad jokes, mild to heavy drinking, dragon slaying, a bit of sparring, competition in the field, sharing scar stories, lots of picking up and tossing up to catch, her sweet, sugary laughter filling Skyhold’s evening air followed by his deep booms.

And they’re both quite casual about physical intimacy.

One day, when she’s absent from a war room meeting, Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine go to her tower where they find her curled into a ball with the Skyhold cat on her bed, rubbing her legs gingerly.

“Bull...” she murmurs, the cat nuzzling her face as she nuzzles back. Josephine’s face is red with second-hand embarrassment while Leliana quirks a brow, glancing between both himself and Lady Montilyet, likely taking in their reactions. Cullen isn’t sure how he feels. Hurt? Led on? He likes her a great deal, and the only time he’s ever had casual sex was when he wasn’t at his best. He doesn’t judge her, he respects her and her choices, but he thought that she... Maybe. It’s been confusing. Perhaps not, but then, “...threw me into some scaffolding by accident... Get Dorian.”

After her favourite mage works his magic (as well as provide her with a lot of ice), Cullen revisits her.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she laughs. “Careful, Commander. People might say a few things.”

“People say quite a few things already, Inquisitor,” he smiles, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. “How exactly did he throw you into some scaffolding?”

“Sera dropped some flowers,” she grimaces. “We were testing how far he could throw me past enemy lines. I was just a foot off a clear space. We were behind the tavern, nearby Morris’ spot. One of them landed near his nose, and he sneezed at the exact moment he threw me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was actually quite funny. Well, it would’ve been if it didn’t hurt so much. Cassandra was there. The look on her face was priceless. And also terrifying,” she smiles, eyes drooping.

“Shall I leave you to rest? You look tired.”

“Solas gave me something for the pain,” she murmurs, the cat decidedly trying to sit on her face. “S’making me sleepy.”

“You also have a cat on your face.”

“Mhmmph,” she manages, gently pushing the cat away. “Stay with me?”

“I – of course.”

“At least until I’m out,” she smiles, patting his knee. “I know you have things to do.”

“I can take them with me,” he offers, a little too eager to remain by her side, even for something as minor as an accident among friends.

“No, no, you shouldn’t have to babysit me,” she continues. “But please take the cat with you. I don’t want to suffocate in my sleep after getting thrown at some scaffolding by accident. That would be an embarrassing way to go.”

“As I recall, you stayed and babysat me one rainy day.”

“Mhm. I suppose you owe me, then.”

“I suppose I do.”

“Well then: shall I collect now, or would you prefer another time?”

“As it turns out,” he smiles, lifting the book under his arm with reports he’d hastily shoved in, “I brought my work with me.”

“Look at you, all prepared to babysit your leader,” she teases. She grabs her pillow, tosses it over to his leg, rolling over to his side where she rests her head, yawning. “Wake me up in an hour?”

“Skyhold won’t fall apart if you take two.”

“My dear Commander, was that a joke?”

“Almost.”

“True. Wasn’t that funny.”

“You wound me, Inquisitor.”

“Then I owe you for such an offense,” she murmurs, eyes closed. “Collect whatever you want.”

“Don’t you mean whenever?”

“Both.”


	35. Cheat Codes

There is a minor change in his office, and he barely manages to notice it until he almost bumps into his own desk.

Tired from a long day of training new recruits and collaborating with the mage allies, Cullen returns to his office with droopy eyes but the mind to coordinate the troops in Emprise when he spots it – a pop of orange in his office, and a floral, damp, natural scent looming about his desk.

He scoffs, rubs his eyes just a bit to observe his latest gift from his not-so-secret object of affection.

A dozen orange roses are artfully set into his empty bottle and make-shift vase, and Cullen assumes she hasn’t the heart to replace it, the green ribbon matching the one she typically wears on her left wrist tied around the neck of the bottle. A a jar of herbs with a note on top sits next to it, tulips scribbled all over.

_To my favourite workaholic: take a pinch with your water if you can’t sleep, or should._

“Huh,” he murmurs to himself, noting the hearts alongside the tulips. She’s gone again to the Hinterlands, the location never wanting to leave her alone. Eyes wandering lower, she scribbled a riddle for him – _what flower does every person have?_

He carefully lifts the bottle from its spot in the centre of his desk, moving it off to the side before piling the reports before him, pulling his chair up from behind and taking a seat.

Try as he may, his eyes betray him and slowly close, Cullen jumping when they shut completely. Unfortunately, his mind is wide awake, and desires work. He always did appreciate his insomnia.

His eyes flicker to the flowers in his office, scanning it over, lingering thoughts of what one elven Inquisitor might be doing this very moment filling his head. He wonders if he ever crosses her mind as often as she does his.

He wonders what she’d do if she were with him now. Maybe she’d burst in through the door on his right, food in hand and a stack of reports under her arm. She’d probably ignore him until he calls out to her, and then she’d say _“Oh, fancy meeting you here.”_ He’d scoff, roll his eyes as she smiles at him, bite her lip as he comes to her side, help her carry all she’s brought to his desk. He’s cleared the left corner, her favourite spot to sit and she’d do so with her legs crossed. She’d ask him what he’s doing up so late, hand him food in the process, and he’d ask her the very same, pouring drinks. She’d make up some wild story about nugs infesting her room, or perhaps she’d tell him she’s meeting someone very important to her, but it’s top secret, hence the late hour. He’d tell her he can’t sleep. She’d frown like she always does, say to herself that she’ll need to find something for him. She’d ask him what he’s looking at, and he’ll tell her in brief. Then, even though only some of their work would coincide, she’d say something to keep herself in his office – two minds are better than one, she could use the company, she’ll help him if he’ll help her, and so on. Hours would pass and they’ll have finished their work, talk instead about the most random of things; she’d talk about some random adventure from her most recent outing, and he’d tell her some silly story about a few of the soldiers, or her companions that stayed behind the last trip. Usually she’d yawn, and he would catch one, too. They’d say goodnight, he’d walk her to the door of his office or perhaps all the way to her quarters. He’d climb up his ladder, lazily strip off his armor and fall onto his bed, his last thoughts about her before he’d drift off, and then before long it’s the next morning, and he'd look forward to when she’ll pop into his office at night again.

Cullen yawns, forcing himself to get up from his seat, deciding to turn in for the evening, his eyes refusing to cooperate, and his late night companion absent from the fortress. He takes one of the roses from its place alongside the note and herbs before climbing up his ladder to his room, sets her most recent gifts down on the table by his bed, ponders her riddle as he strips himself down to his pants and tunic.

Lying in bed, Cullen finds her shift in floral arrangements more perplexing than her riddle. Tulips had always been her preference, Cullen assuming it to be her favourite flower.

He rolls over onto his side before getting out of bed. He climbs down his ladder, searches about for the bottle of water he’d left in his office when another spot of orange catches his eye on his bookshelf, which is just slightly more organized than how he left it. Her doing no doubt, but he knows she’s much cleaner than that; she wouldn’t leave any sort of sign that she tampered with anything unless she wanted him to know that she did.

The orange is another flower, a paper tulip this time, covered slightly in dust, likely having sat there longer than her roses – she’d been in his office twice before departing, most likely.

His eyes go the book in which the stem of her paper flower sits beneath, and sure enough – a text on the language of flowers. Cullen chuckles to himself, taking the book with him before spotting his water in the corner.

He climbs up his ladder again, drops a pinch of her herbs into his mouth before drinking, lighting a candle and flipping through the book that was never on his shelf until recently.

He need not look up the meaning, as everyone knows what roses represent – love, or in her case, a very strong affliction of affection. Given her almost declaration of a sort of courtship – or a _game_ – and calling him out on how much he fancies her, the change seems natural, the flowers more or less a formality to Cullen, but nevertheless he appreciates her consistency and the sentiment.

The colour, however, escapes Cullen. He was never keen on flowers or gardens as a child, though he knows enough to figure that the colour means something. He knows that red symbolizes love and passion, something not present in his room. Red tulips, yes, something he’ll need to look up later, as well as everything else she’s ever left behind or said to him when he has the time, but for now: orange roses.

Cullen’s eyes droop, his mind suddenly exhausted, her herbs seemingly taking effect; he thought he’d have a few minutes before it started working. Try as he may, Cullen yawns, his attention slipping in and out before he falls asleep.


	36. Manic Pixie Dream Girl

She’s quietly upset the next time he sees her, seemingly working to keep her emotions under control, and suddenly Cullen realizes that it’s the first time he’s ever actually seen her so. He wasn’t aware she was even capable of being upset. He always thought she simply preferred to be as positive and optimistic as she could because that’s just her, but that she knows – and he knows – that so many look to her to guide, and she can’t be anything other than indestructible.

He finds her in the garden early in the morning, a single soldier present and making their rounds above, her back to them, himself simply taking a walk to clear his head before spotting her. She’s harvesting her herbs with a disinterest that is so terribly unlike her. She’s never been upset before, or if she has no one’s ever seen anything other than a smile on her face, but today she makes no effort to do so.

“Is something wrong?” he asks with care, seating himself on one of the benches. She glances at him, picks at the bandages on her fingers a bit before seating herself next to him.

“Can you keep a secret?” she asks, a bubbling combination between desperation and hesitance in her voice that sends a shiver down his spine.

“For you, always.”

She smiles at this, but grimaces the next instant, clearly too troubled to let the slightest of things please her, easy as she is to please. “I never told you but... I have family.”

“I assumed that much,” he nods, waiting for her to continue. It’s during her pause, however, that he realizes: he honestly doesn’t know very much about her, if anything. She likes the mystery, he thinks, makes her intriguing as she occupies his thoughts, and she’s always had to appear a certain way for the masses.

“Ooh, the Commander’s sense of humour deigned to pay me a visit today. I’m honoured,” she jabs, but sighs, clearly frustrated with something. “I... my brother.”

“You have siblings?”

“Just the one, I think,” she frowns. “It’s complicated. Anyways he... he joined. He’s here. In the uniform. Well not _here_ , but he’s out. In the Exalted Plains right now. He’s a scout.”

“You’re worried about him?”

“He’s my baby brother, of course I am. I would die for him. He means everything to me,” she says without wavering, brows furrowed and seemingly glaring at her hands. “I know him; I know what he can do. We’re almost exactly the same but... all of these,” she absently rubs at the scar by her ear, “were for him. But I can’t do that from here. Scouts are always the first to go. They buy our soldiers time, they investigate things first, they go missing or get kidnapped _first_.”

“It’s normal to worry,” Cullen tells her, placing a hand on her knee.

“I know,” she exhales. “But I don’t like this feeling. I respect him, he’s truly come into his own, he’s saved my skin several times, and I respect his decision.”

“But you don’t agree with it?”

“Well I don’t disagree. I mean if I wasn’t the Inquisitor I’m sure we would’ve signed on together, at which point I wouldn’t have a problem with this.”

“Would it make any difference?”

“It would make all the difference in the world,” she says in a low tone, her posture not giving away her exasperation, but her voice painted with it. “I’m his Inquisitor now. His leader. My hand makes my life more valuable than his, but his life will always mean the most to me.”

“You really care for him, don’t you?”

“You know I dislike using the word, but I love him, and this really bothers me, so much so that you can _actually_ tell I’m upset. I’m a much better liar than this,” she responds. “No one ever knows I’m upset unless I want them to, and I never want anyone to, but... I can’t help it this time, and it makes it even more frustrating.”

“I can keep a secret,” he assures, offering a smile. “And you are allowed to have feelings.”

“That’s a first,” she scoffs. “Where have you been all my life and why couldn’t people be more like you?”

Cullen averts his gaze, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “So you’d... you’d rather he not be here?”

“I’d rather he be free to do anything else,” she starts. “I’d rather he live long enough to do everything he could ever possibly dream of. I’d rather he die comfortably in old age, telling me his favourite story of one of his most wild adventures, even though I was probably right there with him when it happened. I’d rather he go everywhere he’s ever dreamt of going, see and experience everything he’s ever wanted. I know he can’t ignore what’s going on and I know he wants to help, but I would tear nations apart if it meant he could live his life without having to make decisions based on the world around him. I don’t want world crises to dictate his choices. I don’t want him to wake up one day and realize years have passed and the only thing he’s been doing is cleaning up the mess of some Tevinter magister and getting tangled up with the Chantry and human politics, because that’s all we’ve been doing lately, and I’m already ten years older and I probably look like my own grandmother. I want him to have a full and happy life, because he is so precious and he deserves nothing less.”

“You don’t – you’ll always look vibrant and lovely,” he murmurs. She scoffs, brushing some of her hair behind an ear. “Are you going to tell me his name?”

“No,” she smiles, mostly to herself, and with a slightly pained expression that hurts him to see. “He wouldn’t want me to treat him any differently from the other scouts. He’d know if you told the soldiers to look after him, and he’d probably come here and kill me for it. He knows that I know how good he is. And he’s really good.”

“And yet you’re worried?”

“He’s all I have left.”

“Your clan survived the attacks near Wycome.”

“ _He’s all I have left_ ,” she repeats, a slight shift in her inflection that makes it sound harsher. “I’m sorry, this isn’t your problem. I honestly don’t even really know why I’m upset. I know I shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t have said anyth–“

“You can tell me anything,” he cuts in, giving her knee a squeeze. “Always.”

She places her hand atop his with just the slightest bit of hesitance. She said so herself – she doesn’t _do_ upset, doesn’t like to show it, doesn’t like asking for help, or displaying any signs of weakness, evident in the pause before she touched his hand. Her eyes don’t meet his, but instead continue to stay on her bandaged fingers. He flips his hand over on her knee, and she curls her fingers between his. He’s not sure how he might comfort her, or if she even wants him to, but she’s not turning him away, or pretending she’s happy, something she seems to do often enough, based on her previous statement, and this being the only time he’s ever seen her unhappy. She seems to trust him enough to see her at what he thinks she considers isn’t her best.

“Will I ever get to meet him?”

“Hopefully not,” she chuckles dryly.

“Does he have embarrassing stories you’d rather I not hear?” he raises a brow. She brushes a lock of hair behind her ear, still not meeting his gaze, and fiddling with the ends of her hair.

“... some.”


	37. Mon Ami

“You need to take action,” Cassandra chastises him. Cullen jumps at the Seeker’s words, having walked up next to him without his notice as he barks orders at the soldiers.

“I’m coordinating our troops for–“

“Not that!” she snaps. “Ugh. The Inquisitor, Commander. I know about her _game_ , or whatever she’s calling it.”

Cullen groans. He’s fairly certain everyone knows, or perhaps no one knows, or just a small few, like her inner circle, or every five people wearing hats every third day of every second week. After she confided in him about her brother, she went back to being sunshine, rainbows, and flowers the very next day, a soft smile, gentle squeeze of his hand under the war table, and a paper forget-me-not on his desk to show her appreciation, never bringing it up again. She’s nothing if not efficient.

When he sends her a look, a look of concern – when the roles are switched and he’s hovering with worry and uncertainty as to how he might help, she ambushes him after a war room meeting, or rather she grabs his hand and doesn’t let go until their Spymaster and Lady Ambassador are out the door and well on their way, she peels one of his gloves off, and kisses his hand once again.

When his cheeks are a bright red and he’s stammering, she giggles softly and vanishes before his eyes, his hand dropping to his side, no longer held in her small, calloused ones.

Her walls are up, or... down. Walls he didn’t know existed until very recently, and ones that keep things in, rather than out. But _he_ wants in again, not necessarily to see her as anything other than the perpetual ray of sunshine that she is, but he wants her to trust him – he wants the privilege of truly knowing her and not just what she lets everyone see. More than anything, however, Cullen wants to be there for her the way she always is for him, and he wants to make her smile in all the ways she manages with him.

He can kind of do it. It’s a work in progress.

He thinks the key is winning her game. Back to playing, however, Cullen can’t get a read on her, something he knows is intentional. One day she’s all but throwing herself at him, the next she’s throwing strawberries at him _for science,_ or testing his hand/eye coordination. Some days she’ll drop innuendo as often as she breathes air, the next she’s stuffy (as well as she can be, anyhow) and all business. Other days she’ll speak only in riddles, and then the week after only respond to him by quoting books he’s never heard of in different languages ( _“For practice”_ was the only straight response, accompanied by the most deviously innocent of smiles, of course). One day she even spoke backwards to him – _ginkrow no a edoc_ , _siht si tsuj eht tsrif pets_ , she wrote on a piece of paper for him when she was taken away to do some other work.

He still hasn’t found the time or energy to decode her floral arrangements, paper or otherwise, and organizing the Inquisition’s forces alongside the Grey Wardens has occupied much of his time. Cullen sends Cassandra one helpless and tired look, but she only raises a sharp, unrelenting judgemental brow.

“I’m losing this game,” he sighs hopelessly. “I don’t even know how to play. Every time I think I know her rules, she changes it.”

“I know her as well as you do – _there are no rules_ , Cullen,” Cassandra reminds him. “Why must you think she would ever do anything normally? It’s _her_.”

“I saw her with a lute the other day, speaking to Maryden. I fear she might start singing at me.”

“If you do not like this game, then tell her you’re no longer playing. It’s that simple.”

“I–no. I just... I can’t keep up. She’s so – I... I don’t know what she’s trying to tell me or how she even makes the time for it. I don’t know how everyone else can–“

“Who else?” Cassandra scoffs. “Cullen, you are the only one playing. You are not out there with us, but at some point everyone else, whoever you may think they are, lost interest in her games some time ago. They believe it is just her way, but I know better, as do you.”

“How do you–“

“She is a friend to me,” she states curtly, turning to walk away and sending him a knowing look. “You are her friend, are you not? She may or may not tell you, but if you put in the effort and pay close attention, she will tell you something.”

“Which is?” he asks. She’s already let him in on something about her, and he’s curious as to what Cassandra might know. It could be something else, or it might not.

“That is for you to figure out,” she responds. “And make the time for it – for her – if you truly do not intend to stop playing. Show her.”

“Forgive me, but why do you care at all about my relationship with the Inquisitor?” Cullen raises a brow.

“She is my friend, Cullen,” Cassandra reiterates. “Friendship means a great deal to her, and to myself. Tell me: do you think there is nothing she would not do for you?”


	38. Twenty (One) Questions

Cullen takes a deep breath, flexing his fingers before reaching for the handle, opening the door.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she chimes as the door creaks. He exhales, thankful she isn’t speaking in sonnets today. “What can I do for you?”

“I have a game for you, actually,” he declares after a pause. Maker help him.

“As I recall, Commander,” she muses, not turning from her seat in the library below the war room, “we’re still playing one. And I’m actually working today. Trying to be responsible and all that.”

“Not one for playing games within games?” he closes the door behind him, striding up to the chair, resting his arm upon it. “That’s awfully disappointing.”

“Ooh, look at you, teasing me for being a bore,” she grins. “All right. You know I love games.”

“I do.”

“So I take it yours has rules?”

“I like to play fair,” he shoots at her. “Twenty Questions. I ask, you answer.”

“I don’t get to be the asker? Well, you _do_ like your rules,” she murmurs to herself.

“And you once told me I could ask you anything.”

“I recall,” she smiles, tucking her papers into her tome and setting it aside, giving him her undivided and unnerving attention. “Okay, let’s play.”

“Is it in this room?”

“Yes.”

“Do I know what it is, exactly?”

“I’d be mildly insulted if you didn’t,” she grins. He quirks a brow. “Mhm, this _is_ fun.”

“Can I pick it up?”

“Absolutely. But you haven’t yet. I do have every intention of changing that in the future, mind you.”

“Is it close to me?”

“In more ways than one, I hope.”

He studies her, and she doesn’t bother to hide her smile or even the object of the game: her. Cullen takes a moment to ponder, however. He sought her out to challenge her, show her that he wants to play her game, maybe figure out her tells, but she turned it into her own and– huh.

Perhaps it might work in his favour.

“Does it perhaps have flawlessly touseled brown hair that is perfect regardless of what happens to it? Rain, wind, or snow?” he asks. She giggles, nodding. “Does it– she, have a tattoo on her face?”

“Creators, Cullen, you’re absolutely certain the object in my mind is a person? And a girl, no less. You’re really good at this,” she remarks. “Yes.”

He takes a deep breath, swallows and tastes the remains of the liquid courage he’d taken a few moments before he sought her out. Somehow he feels as though she wants him to deviate – her subject was too obvious, and his questions to the point. No... she’s giving him an opportunity to push back, maybe win a round in her game, just like the book he hasn’t found the time to look through.

So she does play a _little_ fair.

He seats himself on the stone table in front of her, “What’s the point of your game?”

“Ah, ah, ah, Commander. You’re breaking the rules of yours. Yes or no questions only.”

“As I recall, we’re playing a game within yours, and yours doesn’t have any rules.”

“Very good,” she smirks, leans closer to him, and he can feel her breath on his cheeks. “To get your attention.”

“Why?”

“For research and personal purposes,” she responds easily. “Personal research purposes, in fact.”

“And what would those be?”

“It’s no secret that I’m quite fond of you. I simply want to engage you more,” she shrugs, voice gentle and even, so comfortable in her responses, and quick. “I want to get to know you more than I already do. You fascinate me, and I’d like for us to be closer.”

Cullen clears his throat. That she can say things so honestly with such confidence and he just... “Your flowers: do they all have meanings?”

“Absolutely,” she confirms. “Though I should warn you that you only have ten questions left, and I spotted a book on your shelf that would answer this one for you. Make them count, Commander. I fancy myself some poetry tomorrow. You may never get any straight answers out of me for another week, and I’ll be leaving for the Hissing Wastes in a fortnight.”

“You are devious,” he says, brows furrowed. She smiles, one of her fingers tracing the lines on his gauntlet casually, waiting for him to continue. “Am... am I the only player left in your game?”

“Who said anyone else aside from us was playing at all?” her tone is light, the words barely above a whisper when she meets his gaze.

“I’ve... I’m not proud of this but I’ve seen the way– how close you are with the others, I didn’t want to assume that I was– that we... uh...”

“We...?” she peers at him, waiting for him to continue. When his eyes dart to his left, she speaks once more. “All right, change of pace – I want in on the questions, since we’re already breaking all the rules. May I?”

Cullen exhales and nods, thankful she doesn’t leave him to wallow in his incomplete sentence, but all the while worried at her potential questions.

“We have nine questions left, so we can go back and forth until we run out. Fair?”

“Fair.”

“All righty,” she grins. “How do you get your hair to look like that every single morning? Varric told me it looked quite different in Kirkwall.”

He chokes, laughing. “I... an oil that straightens it out, and a wax to keep it in place. Why is that important to you?”

“I’m curious,” she shrugs a shoulder casually. “Your turn.”

“Uh... do you have any other family?”

“Just the one brother. I think.”

“You’ve said that before. Why aren’t you certain?”

“That’s another question, so you know,” she tells him. “I’m just not sure. I might have more. I probably don’t. Probably.”

“You mentioned a grandfather before, is he...?”

“He passed away several years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“As am I,” she murmurs, playing with her fingers. “You told me about your family before so: any places you’d like to see some day?”

“Ah... the Emerald Graves, actually,” he remarks, relaxing as her questions become more casual. “You made it sound quite spectacular when you returned.”

“Ooh, then I want to go with you, if that’s all right,” she bounces. “I want to go back. Also, I think we should _borrow_ Chateau d’Onterre, maybe turn it into an outpost. I’ll make a formal request later. Josephine’ll want to scold me before I do anything.”

“I thought it was infested with demons and the undead.”

“Oh, it was. Then the Inquisition happened, so now it’s only infested with decaying corpses and old blood stains.”

“Charming,” he comments. “All right... did you finish your code?”

“You’re running out of questions, aren’t you?” she giggles. “I did, actually. Would you like me to send you messages? It now contains anagrams as well as a specific parchment, colour codes for the wax seals or strings I use, knot patterns, and a certain candle to read it.”

“Please don’t,” he chuckles. “Your turn.”

“It’s not that complicated. I was actually thinking of using it to send false messages any enemies might intercept,” she explains. Cullen smirks. “What?”

“Nothing, just...” he starts, the smile on his lips growing as she looks at him with genuine confusion – a first. “I still don’t understand why you want everyone to think you’re terrible at your job, and that anything the Inquisition achieves is through sheer dumb luck or Cassandra and the rest of us.”

“I’m sorry, but have you seen her cheekbones?” she protests. Cullen scoffs. “Okay, fine. I prefer not being seen or heard.”

“But you _are_ seen and heard – you lead the Inquisition. And your hand glows. You’re hard to miss.”

“I... I can get away with more if I’m not,” she responds curtly.

“Why do I get the feeling that’s not the whole story?”

“Because it’s not, but I don’t feel like telling you about it today. It’s dreadfully boring anyhow,” she adds.

“I somehow doubt that. Nothing about you is ever boring.”

“That’s because I make everything I do seem terribly interesting yet secretive, which only makes you want to know even more,” she provides. “And it works, because you just asked me a question even though it’s my turn.”

“We’ll make it Twenty-One Questions, then.”

“Look at you breaking all the rules.”

“Your influence.”

“I always did have a thing for the bad yet terribly attractive ones,” she chuckles. “And a knack for corruption. Though none of them were nearly as awful as me.”

“You were the bad girl?”

“Ah-ah, my question, and I have a really good one, too,” she smirks. “That person you _like_ -like – do they know about us?”

Cullen stammers, then clears his throat as he feels his cheeks burning up. She giggles oh so sweetly, scandalously delightful to his ears, causing the heat to reach them, but Maker, he never wants it to stop.

“I– you... Maker’s breath, you – you are horrible.”

“You say that, but I think you adore me,” she grins. “I don’t blame you. Madame de Fer calls me _darling_ and actually means it.”

“And you say that, but here’s my question,” Cullen glares at her, still flustered, “what is there to know about us? Because I’d... I’d like to know, myself. We’ve been doing _this_ , whatever it is, for three months now.”

“You tell me.”

“I asked _you_ the question.”

“Touché, Commander,” she hums, then licks her lips, seemingly deep in thought. “And we’ve been doing _this_ , whatever it is, for _more_ than three months now, actually. At least I have. Ah.”

“Oh? You’ve an answer?”

“I’ve the answer, and the last question,” she says confidently. He raises a brow, waits for her to respond. “Do you want me?”

Cullen clears his throat, eyes scanning her as she leans back into her seat. “I–“

“To stop.”

He knows her word choice is deliberate, the pause just as intentional, which requires him to do a bit of additional thinking – she’s asking him more than just one question. Does he want her? Does he want her to stop what? The game, the teasing, their closeness, their easy friendship, or perhaps her closeness with the others? What will happen if she does? Do they grow closer, or do they sever ties? He could specify – this isn’t a yes or no game anymore – but that’s not the right answer. She doesn’t provide any indication on what _is_ , but he doesn’t think so, and it wouldn’t be his answer anyway.

“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do,” he responds truthfully. Whatever answer she’s expecting, and he knows she’s not expecting a particular one because there is no right or wrong answer, he knows – he _feels_ – that this is his, and it feels right to him, and that’s what matters to her. He wouldn’t want her to change anything. Provide a bit more clarification and tone down the teasing? Perhaps. But he can ask for that, and she’d know he’s serious if he asks. She’d acquiesce, of course, because she cares. He doesn’t ask, however, because part of the teasing is the closeness, and the affection. It’s what lingers when she’s gone, and the last thing he thinks of before drifting off most nights. It’s the flowers, the fun, the smiles when he thinks about her randomly throughout the day, and the butterflies in his stomach that give him hope that she feels just as strongly as he. That she doesn’t stop says much – she wants him to think about her; she wants him to try and figure her out because few seem to truly know her at all.

He wouldn’t tell her what to do. It’s not in him, and it’s not fair to her. She’s a free spirit, and it’s one of the things that decidedly makes her very memorable and special to him.

Her reaction to his response is telling: she bites her lip, smiling to herself at his words, eyes downcast without a witty response ready, and she’s quick with those.

Cullen continues. “I would play this game forever if it meant we’d– if you– Maker’s breath...”

Before she can change the subject or perhaps finish his sentence for him, not leaving him to stutter about with his words, Josephine and Leliana appear, collecting them for a war meeting. An urgent matter requires her attention in the Storm Coast, and she’s to leave immediately.


	39. Je suis à toi et tu es à moi

She’s gone for two weeks to the Storm Coast, only to extend her leave and make her trip to the Hissing Wastes, likely making a stop in the Exalted Plains on the way to hunt down her brother in the process.

Leliana looks as though she wants to strangle Cullen. Lavellan is gone for just a little over a month, and she does this all the time, having left for two before, but it’s torturing him. He’s trying to be subtle about it, but he’s not nearly as good at hiding his emotions as she is.

She knows now, but it’s not like before. Cullen had said it, not precisely in complete words, but she knows how he feels now, and she seemed pleased, which means she reciprocates. She... she still likes him, right? No, of course she does. She can’t tire of him that quickly, can she?

He finishes up his discussion with Leliana and leaves for his office, the Spymaster ready to throw him from her balcony on the way. She knows. She knows everything, and though Cullen behaves professionally, she spots him glancing at the doors, hoping a certain elf will stroll through them.

Arriving in his office, Cullen notices a few memos and a book had fallen onto the floor. Bending down to pick them up, he notices a light trail of sand leading behind him.

He scoffs. “Dramatic entrances now?”

“I thought that was quite subtle,” she objects from behind. He turns around, smiles at the sight of her. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he responds, a bit at a loss for words. “I, uh... when did you...?”

“About an hour ago.”

“You’ve only just returned?” he asks, words slow, but his mind is reeling. Upon her return, several things are usually in order – her mount, her armor, reports and a status update, a meeting with her advisors. But she’s standing in his office, partially clad in her leather armor.

Apparently she couldn’t wait to see him, and his heart flutters at the thought.

“I just felt like seeing you first,” she confesses, the shyest, smallest, and fondest of smiles he’s ever seen on her face, batting her lashes and averting her gaze for a moment before meeting his eyes again.”And I thought we could talk. Alone.”

“Alone?” he repeats, but she nods her head in the direction of Leliana’s space. “I-I mean, of course.”

He steps aside for her to lead the way out, and he follows in silence.

She, surprisingly, does not break it, which worries him. She... she feels the same, does she not? No, of course she does. It’s only been a little over a month and her smile, well, he could never forget that moment.

But... it’s _her_. And it’s been a little over a month. Has she come up with a new round for her game? Is this part of it? What is she thinking? Was he reading too much into her single smile? She smiles at him all the time. Yes. No, wait. No... it was different. Or maybe she wants him to think that. Maybe there’s one more round. He did say he would play the game forever. What if she’s testing him? Complicating things is her favourite past time, after all. Maybe she’s been waiting for him to verbally confess so she might add another game, or perhaps do something else.

Cullen clears his throat. “It’s a nice day.”

“What?” she turns to look at him, seemingly taken from her own thoughts.

“It’s...“ he starts, rubbing the back of his head, turning his words over carefully, “there was something you wished to discuss.”

She raises a brow just slightly before she stifles a little laugh. Shaking her head, she responds, “Certainly not the weather.”

Cullen sighs, “I assumed that much. I-I can’t say I haven’t wondered what I’d say to you in this sort of situation.”

He only spent the last month thinking about it. Longer, actually.

“What’s stopping you?”

“You’re the Inquisitor, we’re at war and you... haven’t always seen me in the best light,” he confesses, all too readily. Cullen cannot say why – she knows virtually everything there is to know about him, he need not bring it up but he feels he should give her the opportunity to turn around. She deserves someone who is not afraid to say how they feel. Or can actually finish their sentences and express themselves clearly.

“And yet I’m still here,” she says immediately, and with the utmost certainty. Her eyes – she looks at him again, full of wonder, anticipation, affection, patience, hope and _want_.

“I... So you are. It... it seems too much to ask, but... I want to,” he murmurs, slowly closing a distance that feels much larger now than it had before. His hands move to her waist, and she feels so much smaller than she’s ever felt in his arms. He can smell her – sweat, sand, a bit of blood, always with the elfroot and a touch of vandal aria, likely some stuffed into her back pocket for reasons unknown. She bites her lip, eyes flickering from his lips to his eyes as he slowly closes them, having dreamt of this moment too many ti–

“Commander.”

She exhales, leans back and away from him as he does the same, a light little laugh on her lips as his hands drop from her waist. _Of course_.

“You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana’s report.”

He grumbles. “ _What?_ ”

“Sister Leliana’s report?” the messenger repeats. “You wanted it delivered without delay.”

Cullen glares at the man before him, terrified in his spot as his eyes shift from the Inquisitor to Commander, the former doing her best to muffle her laughter.

“O-or to your office. Right,” he practically whimpers, backing away quickly.

The door slams behind him swiftly and Lav is still laughing, trembling in her spot with hand covering her eyes, a grin from ear to ear. She manages to settle, her smile still plastered across her face as she tries to be polite. “If you need to–“

Cullen cannot wait. He does not want to wait, nor does need to do his work this instant – he needs to kiss her.

He pulls her forward, a hand cupping her face and in her hair and the other on her waist, his lips crashing into hers.

He is out of practice as their noses bump, but she, ever accommodating, devious little rogue, adjusts. Her arms find their way around him and his armor comfortably as she pushes herself closer on the tip of her toes, her chest pressed against his as she calms his fervent want, her lips tender and soft. She presses her cheek into his hand, tangled in her hair, catches his lower lip between hers, a suck lost in a shuffle of affections and her bubbling hum, clearly pleased with him cutting her off mid-sentence, followed by a trace of her tongue across his lips before she slips it past his teeth, and leaves just a tease against his, stealing a surprised little moan, the remainder of his breath, and putting all his dreams of this very moment to shame.

So much better in real life.

Cullen pulls away, lips parted and working to find his bearings, needing a moment to catch his breath. She actually– he actually... they–

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “That was um... really nice.”

“I believe,” she starts, quite thoughtful and breathless as well, “that was a kiss...? But I can’t be sure, it’s... it’s all a blur.”

He laughs. The corners of her lips curve up at the sound as he leans in once more.


	40. ma chérie

Cullen has a problem.

Well, it’s not necessarily a problem as much as a new... habit. A terribly overwhelming feeling rises within him and every time he sees his beloved Inquisitor smile oh-so flirtatiously at him he simply must kiss her for about fifteen minutes. Sometimes more.

It happens virtually anywhere. They don’t necessarily grab each other in the middle of the great hall, but he steals her away into whatever corner or room he can find – he has to feel her lips on his, and her small frame in his arms and pressed against him.

It’s the worst kept secret in all of Skyhold. In addition to stealing her away wherever he sees her, they also frequently walk the battlements together, stopping to take a break from teasing and talking work to just be all over each other for about ten minutes before it’s back to business.

They’re still friends. She’s one of his closest friends. She still teases him, she couldn’t fight that ridiculous grin when he had to run back to his office naked after that embarrassing game of Wicked Grace. They still play chess, he still wins and pokes fun at her. She still makes silly faces at him across the war table, and she’ll always come running when she sees that he’s a bit too tired. They compete, they train, they work and eat together late at night. She even still convinces him to throw fruits from high places with her.

But when they touch, when they’re just a bit too close, when they bump into each other completely by accident, when she’s not trying to steal all of his attention away he just...

Their lips part, both of them exhaling sharply, chests rising and falling heavily. They’ve only been together for a few weeks now, Cullen still kissing her with want and a bit more force – he needs to feel her because he still can’t quite believe that she wants him. But her?

Her kisses are slow and tender. She wants him, of course, makes it abundantly clear in her eyes and the way she bounces in place as he leans closer, but she does not kiss him with the same urgency. No, she makes her kisses last – she wants to drag it out, make him drown in her kisses and remember the feeling of her lips on his hours after she’s gone, and enjoy the way he responds to her touch; her hands in his hair, the ends of her fingers grazing his scalp, pressing all of her small elven body against his as he holds her close and refuses to let go. She kisses to please, torturously slow, capturing his lips between hers, biting, enticing, and inviting. She’ll leave his lips, kiss his scar, his chin, trail a few light brushes across his jawline before returning to his lips, slipping her tongue into his mouth and doing things he can’t even put into words – wet and warm and breathy and lengthy.

And she’ll keep going until he’s truly out of breath and they _have_ to pull apart, a great deal of reluctance on both ends.

“The day you kissed me on the battlements,” she murmurs, pressing only last kiss to his lips, “how long had you wanted to do that?”

He chuckles, still slightly out of breath, fingers playing with her hair, his thumb brushing her cheek. “Longer than I should admit.”

“That I’m Dalish never bothered you?”

“I hadn’t considered,” he responds. “Elves weren’t treated differently in the Circles I served. I didn't think what it might mean to you. I hope that doesn’t – I mean, _does_ it... bother you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. If you’re not serious...” she teases.

He pulls her forward, lips meeting his for one long kiss. When they break, he moves in to steal one more, just because.

“I am,” he says firmly. “If I seem unsure, it’s because it’s been a long time since I’ve wanted _anyone_ in my life. I wasn’t expecting to find that here. Or you.”

She blushes. _Actually_ blushes. Cullen knows he isn’t imagining it when her ears flutter and she averts her gaze, despite the very dim lighting in his office.

She brings a hand to his, wraps her fingers around the one in her hair before she presses her lips to the palm, smiling, mostly to herself.

“May I ask you something?” he starts. She nods, drawing circles or some other shape on his breastplate with her free hand. “Why the games?”

“Mm,” she hums, clearly expecting the question to come up. “I needed to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?”

“That you thought I was worth it,” she murmurs, biting her lip. “Why else drag it out? Speak backwards, quote novels, send mixed signals and tease? And if you did bother to look up some of those quotes, a lot of them were meant to mislead. Just in case. I needed to be certain that you wanted me badly enough that you’d have the patience to go through all the trouble. And you did – this was the prize, and you won. Congratulations.”

“I...” he starts, “I find it hard to believe that no one else wouldn’t want you, your attention and affection as deeply as I. You’re–you’re... well, you’re _you_.”

“Your way with words is absolutely precious,” she giggles.

“You wound me.”

“I’m serious!” she exclaims, pulling him by the fur of his coat down for a quick kiss. “It means I need to do a bit more work to understand you, and I’m glad.”

“I’m not,” he sighs.

“No?” she quirks a brow. “I’m getting better at reading your unfinished sentences. I can already read your body language, your face, I can pick out your tells, and even read your hands a little, every time your fingers twitch. Eventually I’ll know exactly what you want without having to ask, and I really, really, _really_ like to please.”

“I don’t suppose you know what I want us to do right now, do you?”

She brushes the tip of her nose across his. “I have a pretty good idea.”


	41. A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

“You’ve been staring at me for the past five minutes in utter silence, smiling like you want to eat me as a cat would a mouse,” Cullen murmurs from behind his reports, not looking up.

“So I have. An interesting comparison, too.”

“May I ask why?”

“Can’t an Inquisitor observe at her darling Commander in silence without reason?” she asks, pulling a leg up to her chest and resting her chin on her knee.

“Always,” he raises a brow, “but if her Commander wanted to ask her why, would his dear Inquisitor answer?”

“It is unnerving?” she giggles.

“A little.”

“Sorry,” she offers sheepishly, but quiets herself for a moment, likely contemplating her words. “It’s just... we’ve never established any ground rules.”

“I thought you didn’t like rules.”

“I like skirting them, but that’s not my point,” she continues. “I never made it clear that I didn’t want you to touch me, but you’ve only ever kept your hands in very respectful places. I’m wondering why, hence the staring. And I don’t ever want to violate your personal space; maybe you’re not comfortable with something, so I want to know.”

“I suppose I’m a little old-fashioned,” he blushes. “And I don’t want to overstep and offend you.”

“You’re such a gentleman it’s maddening,” she sighs.

“Do you not like that...?”

“No, I _adore_ it. Please don’t ever stop,” she bites back another sigh. “But I’m absolutely not against you and your wonderfully calloused, rough but also gentle – _amazing_ by the way– human hands, moving around. Or those lips. And that scar. And stubble.”

“I... duly noted,” he murmurs, eyes wide but finding himself grinning. “Though I confess, I’ve... thought of you and your hands before. A number of times. And... I might’ve dreamt of them as well. Long before we were... well, _us_.”

“I do recall that one conversation that ended with a back massage some time ago.”

Cullen groans, closing his eyes. “Yes, I don’t think I could forget that, either.”

“Didn’t like it?”

“What? No, I...” he starts, but stops short. “It’s just... I never thought to look at you as anything more than my friend until that.”

“Really?” she smiles, tilts her head to the side with the utmost curiosity. “So one back massage and some innuendo brought all this on?”

“I– yes, I suppose it did.”

“Huh. Lucky me,” she grins, getting up from her seat then rounding his desk to lean on it before him. “So... you dreamt about me? What happened?”

“I’ll keep that one to myself, thank you.”

“But if you tell me then I can make that dream come true.”

Cullen’s brows are furrowed momentarily before he exhales. “I kissed your hand.”

“That’s it?” she pouts. “ _Details_ , Commander. I aim to please but I can’t if you don’t tell me everything.”

“Do you remember that conversation?”

“Always,” she smiles. “We were talking about my hands. Everything you said sounded very inappropriate despite your best efforts to comfort me.”

“Of course you remember that... May I?” he asks, holding out a hand. She places one of hers in his. “I dreamt that I kissed your hand before you left my office, but then you pulled back.”

“Aw, no. Why did I do that?” she frowns as he brings her hand to his lips.

“Because...” he continues, taking her other hand and guiding them to his neck, “you took my face into your hands.”

“Okay,” she nods, grinning as she brushes her thumbs against the stubble on his neck, moving to caress his face with her hands as instructed. “Then what?”

“Then you kissed me.”

“Ooh, I like this dream,” she giggles as she presses her lips to his briefly. Backing away just a fraction of an inch, she rests her forehead against his. “And then?”

“Well I was standing in my dream so...” he says, rising to his feet. “You were– are too short, so I...” he continues, bends down to wrap his arms around her legs, “wrapped my arms around you legs like this.”

She squeaks, brings her arms around his neck as he lifts her. “Did I do anything?”

“You ran your fingers through my hair, then traced my jaw with one,” he explains, Lav doing as he dreamt, the ends of her fingers grazing his scalp and one arm pulling back to brush a finger across his stubble and jaw. He sets her down on his desk, takes her hand as he remembers, kisses the palm, then each digit, only her index finger and thumb bandaged unlike in his dream. As if on cue she bites her lip, smiling as she watches him before he leans in closer to kiss her, and of course, she slips her tongue inside for some added fun.

He pulls back after some time for air, breathlessly laughing. “You didn’t need much instruction to make all that come true.”

“You mean dream-me uses tongue, too?” she asks, amazed. “Nice. Dream-you is kind of an aggressive kisser. Then again you– he was kind of swept up in the moment.”

“You’ve dreamt about me?”

“What else am I supposed to do in Emprise du Lion?” she scoffs. After a pause, however, she adds, “Besides my job, I mean.”

“What happened in those?”

“Uh...” she starts, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Unusual reimagining of events that actually occurred, so like... after three dragons and Michel de Chevin dressed like a harlequin, you show up with our troops. In one of them you discovered this mermaid frozen under the lake. In another one, this time with the _Choice Spirit,_  you kissed me. Quite dramatically on the bridge. And Ser Bobbert of the Mire, my bog unicorn, was there. He's always there."

Cullen nearly chokes on his own laugh. “What do you even dream about?”

She hums, pursing his lips. “I could tell you, depending on how much free time you have.”


	42. GET A ROOM

Cullen’s taken to running in the morning.

It keeps him healthy of course, gets his blood pumping and wakes him up, refreshing to get some air and move while doing so. He runs along the battlements – it gives him a chance to scan the fortress himself, keep an eye out and check on things without having to be very official about it or make the soldiers break into a nervous sweat upon seeing him.

And of course he happens upon her every odd morning or so, as well.

Fortunately for him she’s present today – in the garden, managing her pots and pots and pots (why does she need so much?) of elfroot and spindleweed. She has the Skyhold cat with her today, though sometimes she’s accompanied by mice, and once or twice with a squirrel, usually humming, sometimes talking to the animals as if they understood her, elbow-deep into soil and harvesting materials for her poultices, hair in that messy bun he enjoys so much – the nape of her neck visible.

“Do you think they understand you?” he asks, stepping into the garden and wiping his face with the shirt in his hand.

“Of course they do. They’re very good at keeping secrets, as well as sending messages for me,” she smiles at the cat fondly, rubbing behind its ears before it scampers off. Before it does, however, Cullen spots the orange ribbon around its neck – nearly identical to the colour of its fur, and he wonders if she’s been passing notes to someone in secret, and if the mice and squirrels can do the same. “How was your run?”

“Refreshing,” he exhales, sticking his arms into his shirt. “Your garden?”

“Very good, but I think my elfroot would benefit from you keeping that off for just a few more minutes,” she says matter-of-factly. “Almost as good as sunlight.”

“Almost?” he asks, hands already at her waist and pulling her forward.

“Maybe a little bit better,” she shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe.”

He smirks, bends down quickly to wrap his arms around her legs, hoisting her up and over his shoulder before spinning her around, her laughter filling the morning air and garnering the attention of the soldier on patrol above. He steps closer to the benches, seats her on one before kneeling before her, taking his first kiss of the day.

“Favourite part of my mornings,” he murmurs against her lips. She smiles, a single light little laugh against his lips as he kisses her again and again, and then more laughter, slightly breathless and just faintly tired, likely up all night doing something, Cullen delighting at the sensation of her sheer joy vibrating through him, the sound bouncing off the stone walls and surrounding him. Truly the best part of his mornings.

She pulls back a moment, glancing around for any nobles who enjoy morning strolls through the garden before running her fingers through his hair, down his neck and arms, guiding him closer.

“I’m not quite decent,” he warns. Cullen isn’t quite drenched in his own sweat, the mountain air having cooled him off during his run, but he feels it.

“On the contrary; I may or may not find you covered in sweat extremely attractive.”

“Oh?”

“I like it when people work up a sweat. Shows your dedication to something, and that you work. I admire that,” she tells him, brushing her lips ghostly down his lips and chin. “And you already know I adore you.”

“Mhm, I never tire of hearing it.”

“So: you, wonderfully sweet and handsome you, plus sweat and no shirt is very, very, very, very, very, very attractive to me.”

“Wow,” he remarks, “that’s a lot.”

“Mhm-hmm,” she hums, pressing her lips to his gently. Her fingers trace his collarbone, hands meeting in the centre of his chest. “I never did get the chance to fully appreciate the front view – you were too busy running back to your quarters. May I?”

Her question is far too polite and sincere for him to refuse, though he doubts he could ever turn her down for anything. He isn’t insecure – he trains and maintains his fitness for any coming battles, but her gaze is... well, he doesn’t want to disappoint, even though he doesn’t know what she expects. She bites her lip, leans back just slightly, eyes scanning up and down, hands hovering few centimetres away from his skin before he nods – it’s not like he hasn’t thought about her hands all over him.

Another dream come true.

Her fingers trace his muscles, her touch sending shivers all throughout his body. Her attention, however, jumps quickly to his scars, eyes overflowing with curiosity and moving from one to the next before she spots one just by the base of his neck.

“That’s new.”

“Not that new,” he corrects. He realizes his armor must cover it most of the time. “Haven. An archer.”

“Did you dodge it just in time or are they just a terrible shot?” she murmurs, brows furrowed. He can’t decide whether she’s concerned or unimpressed. He’s seen her shoot, and he knows that were they on opposite sides, she would’ve gotten him right in his throat.

“I was lucky,” he responds. Her expression softens at his words, eyes meeting his briefly before she leans forward, pressing her lips to the white scar. He inhales sharply, and she backs away immediately.

“Sorry, was that–“

“No, you’re fine,” he breathes, the flesh she’d kissed feels as though it’s on fire, and of course, that want bubbles up inside him.

He pulls her forward immediately; her lips meet his, body stumbling off the bench awkwardly, a breathy little gasp leaving her lips in the process. He moves to catch her, or tries to, losing his balance and falling to the side slightly, taking her with him down onto the grass.

She’s hovering over him before he brushes a thumb across her lips, leaning forward for yet another kiss.

She returns it with fervor, curling her fingers in his hair and pressing herself closer as his hand comes around to the small of her back, rolling her over onto the ground, one of her hands now brushing through the blades of grass, the other still in his hair, a leg coming up to wrap around his waist. Cullen runs a hand down the other, bringing it up around him as well, pressing his body farther against hers, closing any distance that they might’ve missed, Cullen propped up on his forearm as to not crush her under his weight. He presses his lips to hers, then her chin, and down and down and down again until he reaches her collarbone, her sighs filled with the utmost content.

“Ears?” he mumbles against her neck.

“Hm?”

“You’d previously said anywhere – ears included?”

“As you want,” she hums. “Though I hope you realize I’ll need to return the favor.”

“I... look... forward... to... it,” he responds between kisses, trailing up the side of her neck, just the bridge of his nose touching her earlobe, both ears flitting in response. “These are sensitive.”

“ _Very_ ,” she affirms. “This hardly seems fair, though. You’re so much heavier than I am, you even have me pinned to the–“

“Y-your Worship!” someone gasps.

Cullen freezes. He can even feel Lav stiffen under him, her eyes trained on someone behind him.

“Oh, Mother Giselle,” she greets, a breathy amused laugh following. “What... brings you here so early in the morning?”

“I thought to take a stroll through the garden, and be on my way to the chapel,” she responds, just the slighted bit too high, telling Cullen, with his back facing her, that she's incredibly uncomfortable. “Would... you care to join me?”

“Oh, no thank you. I've been out here for a few hours now, and I'm not one for morning prayer,” she responds politely, as if she wasn't lying on the ground under a man, hand overtly coming up to scratch behind an ear. “Commander, would you like to join Mother Giselle for a stroll and the chant?”

Cullen does something between choking, snorting, and laughing. He’s not quite sure what the sound he made was, but he exhales sharply, sends Lav a look that says ‘ _why_ ’ before turning to face the Revered Mother, still wrapped between his dear Inquisitor’s legs.

“I... am quite all right as well,” he breathes, struggling to keep a straight face. He can feel his ears heating up, but not his cheeks. “In fact I have somewhere to be, at the moment, so if you’ll excuse me– _us_ , Revered Mother.”

“Of course,” she bows her head, avoiding eye contact. “Maker watch you both.”

Their eyes stay on the older woman as she heads for the chapel, Lavellan trembling beneath him in silent laughter, a hand over her mouth as she removes her legs from around him.

“Why are you laughing?” he whispers. “This isn’t funny that was– Maker’s breath...”

“You don’t find that remotely funny? ‘ _Maker watch you both_ ’? In more ways than one, probably,” she responds quietly, biting her lip hard as to not make a sound. “Do you think he’s watching right now? Alongside my gods? _Hiiiiii_.”

“Why do I get the feeling this is not the first time you’ve been caught?”

“Because it’s not,” she smirks. “It’s only funny if you get caught, anyhow.”

“Don’t you mean _fun?”_

“Nope,” she shakes her head. “It’s funny if you get caught. It’s fun if you don’t. But this was fun. We should reconvene later today.”

Cullen scoffs. “You are a terrible influence.”

“That isn't a no, and it seems like you enjoy it,” she smiles triumphantly, seemingly pleased with corrupting him. “Though in retrospect, _I_ was the one enjoying it.”

“ _You_ – I need to... be decent by the time she leaves the chapel,” he dodges, finally putting his shirt on, suddenly flustered even though he was all over her moments before. “And before our guests decide to file into the garden.”

“Not going to finish what you start?” she asks, batting her lashes and tilting her head to the side.

“I seem to recall you telling me you’ll have to return the favour.”

“A fair point.”

“Later?” he proposes, standing up and offering her a hand that she takes.

“I’ll find you.”

“I look forward to it."


	43. Slow Down

Cullen doesn’t see her for most of the day, unfortunately. It’s mostly unfortunate as it gives Leliana all the time she needs to drown him with her teasing regarding the _Garden Incident,_ a more polite way of referring to the not so distant moment where Mother Giselle happened upon himself and the Inquisitor in a much less professional situation.

“Things between you and our dear Inquisitor are moving rather... quickly.”

He managed to ignore (for the most part) majority of her teasing, but when she says this, Cullen looks up. “...what do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Nothing you say is ever an empty statement,” he glares at her. Leliana chuckles.

“I don’t think I need to recount the Garden Incident to you, as you were there,” she smiles, too deviously, Cullen notes. “She must be quite remarkable."

He watches her suspiciously for a moment before responding. “She is. Why does this interest you at all? I should think anything I do bores you, as it does nearly everyone else.”

“On the contrary, I find it telling,” she responds. “Especially since you had to have her on the _ground_ first thing in the morn–“

“Andraste preserve me! We weren’t– w-we haven’t– I... I am _not_ discussing– it wasn’t like that,” he snaps, a little too loudly, just enough to silence her birds, and for her agents to turn away either smirking, snorting, or bringing their hands up to cover their mouths, pretending as though they weren’t listening. Below, Cullen can hear Dorian’s laughter, utterly hysterical, the Tevinter mage practically wheezing. Leliana crosses her arms, leaning back into her seat and looks at him with the utmost doubt.

“That’s not what it looked like.”

“It wasn’t!” Dorian bellows, cackling.

“Yes, thank you for your input,” he barks to the mage below. Cullen brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck, cheeks in flames before turning to look Leliana in the eye, something oddly difficult to do. Upon reflection however, her words ring true – it must’ve looked as inappropriate as it felt when Mother Giselle showed up. Cullen clears his throat. “Are we... are we done here?”

“Quite,” the bard smiles. “My agents will investigate the Basin before we take any action. Tell her I said hello.”

“I’m sure you’ll run into her yourself.”

“Not before you.”

Cullen grumbles and stalks off, ignoring Dorian’s still ongoing laughter, and Solas’ quiet glance from behind a book. When he enters his office he moves directly to work. He wants the distraction, but he finds it increasingly difficult to focus, however.

 _Are_ they moving too quickly? It’s been under two months now and she’s left a few times, once for a week, others for a few days scattered between. Most of their days aren’t unlike today – he might see her in the morning, he might not, if he does they’ll spend some time together before parting ways and working, Cullen corresponding with his captains to organize the Inquisition’s troops across Thedas, working alongside Leliana and her scouts or Josephine and their noble allies, and her... well, doing what she does. If he can’t leave his office he’ll need to send a messenger to get something to her for her approval, wherever she is in the fortress, she’ll send something back, usually with a little gift, if it’s something dire they will call a meeting in the war room, and sometimes that’ll be how they start their day. Sometimes meetings might run for hours, others just shy of thirty minutes. They’ll part ways and head to work after a quick kiss that may or may not run for another ten minutes, and if they see each other throughout the day they’ll steal each other away and just be all over each other before reluctantly returning to their work. Every odd day or so she’ll appear in his doorway with all her work under her arm and ask to join him, and he’ll never refuse her company. Other days she doesn’t show up, she likes to speak to everyone in her inner circle every day at least once, but sometimes some conversations require more time from her, in addition to her job, and thus she’s left to finish her rounds at a later date. Some days he won’t come across her in the fortress, they won’t sneak off together, and he’ll continue as he always does. It’s no different from when they were just starting to become friends: she shows up, they spend time together, she leaves after a time. Once they’d gotten closer she’d show up later in the day or perhaps in the evening and stay longer, likely having made her rounds with all her companions before coming to see him. In every case, with the exception of when she’s away from Skyhold, Cullen sees her at least once a day or once every two days. They spend quite a bit of time together, working in silence, goofing off, talking, or not talking and doing something else. With their mouths. And tongues.

Plus, they’ve been friends for far longer than they’ve been together – they’ve been close for quite some time now. If they’re moving quickly, _if_ , would it be so odd?

None of it feels odd. It all feels quite good actually, she feels good– uh, not that he’s felt her in the sort of way Leliana so blatantly spoke of. Actually, now that he thinks about it... he kind of has. In fact, Cullen wonders what could’ve happened had Mother Giselle not shown up. Would it have gone too far? Is that... too far? Are they moving too quickly, then?

She certainly didn’t have any complaints, nor he, and he hasn’t given it much thought. He thought far too much about it when they were still friends, and it seemed to him, after their first kiss, that over-thinking was what kept him from feeling anything for her for quite a bit of time, and it’s something Cullen wishes he hadn’t been so hesitant about. He feels for her. Deeply. And he doesn’t want to second guess any of it.

Kind of like he is now. Maker...

“You look quite thoughtful. Another late night working?” she asks, suddenly appearing next to him, faintest bit of smoke in the air. He jumps, shakes his head at her, glancing out the window and noticing how dark the sky had become. Did he just... waste the rest of his day? “Have you eaten yet?”

“Do I ever eat this late without you?” he questions in return, setting his thoughts aside, something he finds to be rather easy in her presence. She hums, grinning.

“True, but I was trying to be polite.”

“I know.”

“I know you know,” she winks. He smiles, that perpetual lightness about her just so... well, _light_. “Cooks have gone to sleep. Shall we raid the kitchen in the dead of night?”

“I suspect you’ll be teaching me how to break and enter without a sound in no time.”

“Not with that armor I won’t – it’s impractical and loud. Also very big. But we can start small,” she muses, offering him a hand as he takes it. Her other hand comes up and over his, and she puts her weight into pulling him from his seat, leaning back. “How good are you with locks?”

He’s surprisingly not so terrible with locks. His armor is, however, admittedly large and... loud. He clanks against some pots and pans, bumps into a table with his gauntlet, and barely manages to slip out the door behind her. She actually has to wait for him as he fumbles and carries their loot before she steps aside, opens the door wider, shuts it behind him without a sound and relocking, almost as if they hadn’t been there. Well, her at least.

She takes point. There isn’t actually a point in doing so, but she does. She has the guard rotation seemingly memorized, the two soldiers on patrol from above almost in perfect rotation and in sync with the three by the stables, with the added bonus of her dead unicorn who doesn’t require much sleep. There shouldn’t be any blind spots, Cullen oversaw the rotation himself, but her hand is held up for him to hold position, index finger seemingly tapping at nothing to a steady beat when he realizes she’s counting.

Three beats later she takes him by the hand, and once again he’s with her in stealth. He cannot describe the feeling, only knowing that it tingles, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end as he can see through his own hand, and as though he’s moving in a cloud. Though she’s taken him into stealth several times before, moving through the hall and rotunda with ease, Cullen still feels uneasy.

They’re walking at a steady pace, her circling the well with utmost ease as she holds his hand with one of hers with two mugs and a pot in a bag in the other. Unfortunately for him, the bowls in his hands click against his gauntlet, and a guard turns. Cullen inhales sharply, holding his breath with an uncalled for sense of anxiety as the guard moves closer to them. Though their little raid is harmless, he’d prefer not to get caught. He imagines explaining himself would be incredibly unusual, to say the least.

She tightens her grip on his hand and slowly presses forward, tugging him along and away from the soldier who, were it not for her intervention, would have grabbed Cullen’s entire face. From there, the staircase and door to his office are child’s play, and soon enough the two of them are setting their loot on the top of his desk.

“I don’t know how you do that so often,” he sighs.

“Who says I do that often?”

“Do you actually expect me to believe that you don’t?”

She taps the tip of her nose, grinning mischievously. “Keeps everyone on their toes.”

“I’ll need to review the rotation,” Cullen says. “Were it not for me and my armor–“

“Told you so.”

“ –we would have made it here without any issues,” he rolls his eyes, continuing. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Since always, but with a bit more frequency after the Ben-Hassrath infiltrated our ranks. Why do you ask?”

“Hm. No reason,” responds. Cullen starts to remove his armor, flexing, bending, and rolling his fingers, arms, and shoulders after each piece is discarded before a knock on the door steals both their attention.

“Commander?” the guard from earlier, the one who nearly grabbed him by his face, sticks their head into his office curiously before bringing the rest of their person inside. “I... did you perhaps see or... hear, or maybe even... felt something...?”

“I apologize. We–“ Cullen starts, motioning toward where his partner in crime stood before noticing she was nowhere to be found. He glances around the room, looking for her before the silence between himself and the guard becomes a little bit too uncomfortable. “Forgive me, I... I’m certain it was nothing.”

“Could’ve been an intruder. Shall I–“

“It was probably the Inquisitor,” Cullen cuts in quickly, lest the whole of Skyhold be on the hunt for their leader. However, he can feel something pass through the air by him, that chilling sense that makes the hairs on his neck stand up returning before he can feel her fingers running up his arms, her other hand ghostly brushing across and then down his abdomen. He can feel her presence, her breathing before him, but she remains out of sight to both him and the guard. “She... s-she does that.”

“I see,” the guard nods. Their eyes, however, scan his desk, and spots the food. “Forgive me, was I interrupting?”

“Ah, no I was just–“ Cullen inhales sharply, her lips pressing dainty little kisses across his collarbone. “I... will see to it that the Inquisitor c-ceases her sneaking about.”

“Commander, you need not–“

“You could mistaken her for a s-spy,” he continues, clearing his throat as she presses her lips up and up and up his neck, one of her hands on his chest as the other comes up to caress his cheek, her thumb brushing the stubble along his jawline before she places a tender kiss to the corner of his lips. She moves, then, to press a few more across his cheek before he can feel her breath by his ear and, Maker help him, she catches his earlobe between her lips for one soft, teasing kiss, with the promise of the lightest, faintest flick of her tongue. Cullen lets out a shaky breath. “I-I can’t guarantee she’ll stop but I can make a formal request. D-dismissed.”

The guard quirks a brow for a moment before nodding, “Yes, sir.”

Once the door closes, Cullen brings a hand up to give the one she has on his chest a gentle squeeze, pulling her instantly out of stealth as she brushes the tip of her nose against his chin, smiling so innocently.

“Told you it was more fun if you don’t get caught,” she all but sings.

“You are a very wicked rogue.”

“Didn’t like it?” she asks, tilts her head to the side, bats her lashes and pouts ever so slightly. He’d roll his eyes and scoff were it not for the fact that he finds it terribly precious.

“The very opposite,” he responds, taking a seat in his chair before wrapping his fingers between hers and pulling her into his lap. She squeaks, giggly and more than happy to join him as she presses her lips to his, trailing a few breathy little kisses down and down again, Cullen swallowing as her lips graze his Adam’s apple, his hand run up her leg from her knee to her hip, thumb stroking circles as he pulls her closer. It does not last, however, as Cullen pauses.

It’s late, they’re alone, there likely won’t be any more interruptions and she has every intention of returning the favour from this morning. He has absolutely no objections, they’ve been all over each other for quite some time now, but... what if things go too far? Is it too soon?

No, it’s... they’re not moving too quickly. This morning only appeared to be suggestive as he was all sweaty and breathless and on top of her and shirtless. And her legs were wrapped around him. Mother Giselle’s perception of the incident likely made it seem significantly more sinful than it actually was. They’ve done virtually the same thing on the war table multiple times. And countless other times up against several bookshelves. And countless dark corners in almost all of Skyhold. And that one time in one of the cells. He was just fully clothed all those other instances. It’s... this is normal. It’s _absolutely_ normal, going at a completely and utterly reasonable pace.

“Is everything all right?” she asks, backing up to meet his eyes. Cullen clears his throat, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

“Why do you ask?”

“You looked so thoughtful when I showed up – preoccupied, and just now, you stopped everything. Is something bothering you?”

He sighs, a slight smile on his lips as she watches curiously. Is it odd that he likes that she asks?

“...do you think we’re moving too quickly?”

An embarrassed little laugh leaves her lips before she rests her forehead on his shoulder, not meeting gaze as she sighs.

“That’s... my fault. Sorry,” she confesses, backing up reluctantly for their eyes to meet. “I’ve never quite been the slow and steady sort. I... I like passion; I like getting caught up and lost in the moment. Honestly, we –my clan and I– were always moving so nothing really... lasted. But we’ve been like this for a while so, um, may I ask what brought this on?”

“I...” Cullen starts. “Leliana seems to think we are.”

“But do _you_?” she asks, eyebrows raised and her eyes filled with an anxiousness that hurts him to see. “I can try to slow things down if you want.”

“What do _you_ want?” he asks after a moment’s pause. She aims to please, of course, it’s why she asks but–

“I want this to last more than a few months,” she confesses.

“Do you think it won’t?”

“You haven’t grown tired of me yet. That’s a good sign.”

“Do you think I will?”

“I’m hoping you won’t,” she murmurs, the faintest bit of sadness in her voice she can’t hide. “It’s not that I don’t have faith in you, but I’ve been told –countless times– that I always or inevitably will do something wrong.”

“I won’t. And you could never,” he promises. There’s more to it, there always is, and Cullen remembers there are quite a few stories she’d promised to tell him about at a later date that she has yet to share. But he knows better than to ask right now.

“You’re too good to be true,” she smiles, clearing her throat after. “Anyways: slower?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Depends on whether or not it’s what you want.”

“I want you,” Cullen starts, brushing his nose across hers briefly, “to do whatever makes you comfortable and happy, because I care about what you want.”

“And if what I want happens to make you uncomfortable and unhappy?” she giggles, biting back a very bright smile.

“It won’t.”

“Oh? How can you be so sure?”

“Because I really... really... really...really like you,” he murmurs between tender kisses. “And I doubt there’s anything you could ever do to change that. If you want to slow down, I will.”

“And if I wanted to speed things up to, say, your room?” she raises a brow. Cullen blushes, clearing his throat. It’s not as though the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, what with the Garden Incident and Leliana’s teasing, and he has absolutely no objections with being very intimate with her, but it’s been a while since he’s been close with someone. He doesn’t want to rush, which of course– “Exactly my point. I won’t, I promise, but you know what I mean. I’ll try and take it slower. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, either.”

“ _We’ll_ try and take it slower,” he corrects, and smiles, recalling the time he’d told her the very same.

“Then we should start tomorrow ‘cause our food’s likely getting cold.”

He chuckles, “Fair enough.”

 


	44. Back to Work

Right, so: slower.

It’s... it’s, well, it’s _slow_.

Cullen isn’t complaining – he is absolutely not complaining. He agreed to slower because if she truly wanted to take things faster and sleep with him then and there, well.

He doesn’t believe he has the heart to say no to her, but he wouldn’t have said yes either, and that would’ve left them in a very uncomfortable position. Uh, assuming she would want to. So soon, that is. It’s not as though he doesn’t want to because he’d like to. Not immediately, of course, he’s not that kind of man but... in the future, maybe. If she wants to. Not distant, but not immediate. And if she doesn’t, well, not every relationship needs that much intimacy.

It’s still new – they’re still new, figuring each other out in ways they didn’t think they needed to figure out. She never asked about boundaries when they were friends when she sprinted to his side in case he needed anything when he’s not feeling his best, but things are different now.

What they did before was... something of its own. It’s fun and enticing and there aren’t very many words Cullen can think of on the spot to describe just how much he enjoys the feeling of being with her so closely, from her palms to her calloused fingers, her lips, her tongue, the way she hums and sighs and laughs and gasps when he kisses up and down her neck, collarbone and ears and how it feels when each little sound she makes vibrates through him. The way she leans into his touch, the way she presses herself against him to feel as much of him as she can because she wants to be there with him – wants to feel him and get lost in him because she _adores_ him, and she say it over and over and over again, neither of them tired of hearing or saying it.

But when a quick kiss goodbye turns into fifteen minutes of breathless moments in a corner that may or may not happen more than twice a day, he realizes that they can’t really afford to be doing things that way. Not with the hole in the sky and Corypheus running amok.

Were that not the case, however, Cullen would enjoy nothing more than to be lost in her and whatever they do together. Honestly, he’s never had the luxury of simply seeing someone and getting to know them like a normal person would. He’s never gotten to meet someone by chance, at the market or at the docks or something and just spend time with them and get to know them, learn their likes, dislikes, their job, figure out all the ways he can make them smile and be in their life, favourite flowers, favourite colour. They haven’t quite been doing just that, but he imagines that if they had the time, they would. Eventually. If they ever tired of all the kissing and touching. Or perhaps that’s how things would have gone first – he wouldn’t have met her at Haven, they wouldn’t have become friends as they worked together.

He went into training so young, and dedicated his life to trying to become the best he could. By the time he’d become a templar the Circle fell shortly after and he left to Kirkwall a damaged young man who most certainly couldn’t treat someone the way they deserved.

Part of him may always resent that he lost his twenties to anger, demons, fear, madness and violence. When he was a child he had a much brighter idea of what his life was going to become, and while he cannot picture how it actually turned out to have gone any other way, part of him wishes he could get some of that time back to just _live_.

He likes being swept up in every moment with her, it’s almost like a fairy tale, but he also wants to experience the painfully slow but amicable process of getting to know someone a bit every day because the world isn’t crumbling around him and he has the privilege of doing so.

Sadly, once again that is not the case. If it’s not blood magic, madness, and demons, it’s old elven magic, a magister _and_ demons. Fantastic.

Cullen grumbles, sets his quill down and runs his hands through his hair, wondering if he’ll lose his thirties to another crisis. At least this time, however, he has her, and he’s in good enough shape that he can treat her as well as he can. But he wonders, however, with the hole in the sky, if they can afford to take things slow. He wonders if he has the time to cherish every moment, small and seemingly insignificant, with her. He wonders if taking things slowly is the best idea, and what might happen if one of them were to die tomorrow.

He steps outside his office, mountain air momentarily helping him clear his head before he hears her greeting a guard on patrol, on her way to his office.

“Oh, good. Then I can just give you these now and keep moving,” she calls out to him with a smile. When she reaches him, she hands him a thick envelope, and for a moment their fingers brush as the documents exchanges hands, neither of them bothering to move at all.

“I should probably read through these,” he says absently, eyes on her lips. When she notices she laughs under her breath, lashes batting with a smile on her lips as she looks away. They both know a minute alone together will turn into more, or perhaps Mother Giselle might walk in on them again. Or worse: Leliana.

“And I should probably keep moving...” she agrees, nods her head to her left to her destination, hair falling to cover her face. On instinct he reaches out the exact moment she lifts a hand to brush it back, fingers colliding as she lowers hers, both of them smiling yet somehow embarrassed as he tucks her hair behind an ear, fingers just grazing it, prompting both ears to move. His thumb ghostly caresses her cheek as she leans forward briefly, she wants him so clearly and the way she just leans into his touch is positively maddening, but she bites her lip and takes a step back as his hand returns to his side. “I’ll... I’ll see you la– _around_.”

“Uh, of course,” he nods awkwardly, watching as she cuts through his office to the rotunda. She glances back a few times, offers a polite smile and Cullen can tell that _slow_ is not something she’s very accustomed to, or is fond of, and that being embarrassed, being uncertain and even bashful makes her uncomfortable. He has to admit however, that it looks unbearably cute on her. It’s terrible of course, as he never wants her to be uncomfortable, and it only makes him want to chase after her and pick her up, carry her into his office and just drag his hands and lips across every inch of her person she wants, make sure she’s smiling and laughing and flustered in all the ways that makes her just... just so bright and happy.

Cullen sighs, gripping the pommel of his sword as he makes his way to the ledge, peering down at all the people in the courtyard. He actually forgets about all of it – all the sounds and bustling around him disappears when she just looks at him and smiles that damned precious smile that’s just for him and that’s because of him. It only ever shows up when she’s with him and he just–

Ah, _no_.

Cullen rubs the back of his neck. The whole purpose of slow was not just to get to know one another, but also to get work done.

He sighs, turns on his heel and returns to his office. He feels quite well today, actually, and he can’t think of a more appropriate way to spend a day in good health, despite how much he’d like to waste every minute of it with her.


	45. Firsts

The Skyhold cat finds its way into his office. He’s not certain as to how, but it leaps onto his desk, nuzzling and tapping his hand, obviously trying to get his attention.

“Can’t you go bother someone else?” he asks, not expecting an answer, though it does pause to watch him curiously, giving him a moment to spot the green tucked under the ribbon tied around its neck. When he moves to pull it out, however, the cat leaps off his desk, and out the door he hadn’t realized was open.

Normally Cullen wouldn’t pay much attention to the cat or the stray squirrels running about the fortress, but the green was too specific, and he’s quite certain it was paper.

Mhm, definitely her.

He gets up from his seat immediately, feeling the stiffness from having sat there all day before stretching briefly and following the cat out the door, making sure to shut it behind him. It isn’t anywhere to be seen, but a guard jerks a thumb in the direction behind them, smiling but not saying a word as Cullen nods and shifts into a lazy jog. A few metres later and he comes across the tower closest to his by the broken fortress wall they still haven’t found the time to fix. The door is slightly ajar, enough for the cat to enter, and he spots the flickering lights through the window.

With his hand on the door, he pushes it open gently, eyes widening at the countless candles all around the room, pillows and blankets of beautiful lush reds piled on the ground in the centre with a small table placed next to it, candles and flowers in the centre, food on two plates, a bottle of wine, and her, of course, reclining with the cat in her arms, gently petting it before she looks up, smiling.

“You made it.”

“Wow...” he breathes. It’s all he can really manage.

She blushes, opening her arms up and giving the cat space to leave. “Too much?”

“N-no... it’s just... I can’t say I’ve ever had someone set up a candlelight dinner for me.”

“First time for everything,” she offers, clearly embarrassed. “I know we agreed on slowing things down, and I’m not trying to seduce you–“

“You’re not?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Mildly,” he chuckles. “So this is _just_ dinner?”

“Just dinner,” she nods. “We can sit, talk, eat, ask each other questions and try to get to know each other, uh, better... at least that’s what I hear people do when they’re on dates.”

Cullen chokes. “Wait, this is a date?”

“I know, I know, but it’s the best I could do on such short notice. You would not believe how difficult it was pulling some of these candles off the chandeliers without anyone noticing, especially Leliana.”

“Tell me about it,” he sighs, taking a seat next to her.

“But... it’s kind of a date? I didn’t know if I should formally ask you or not ask you and just surprise you since we agreed on slowing things down so... I-I don’t really date, I kind of just...” she babbles nervously, a first, but stops short. “I’m not going to finish that sentence.”

“But if I asked you to? Isn’t the whole point of this to get to know one another?”

“It is.”

“So what brought this on?”

“I just wanted to spend some time with you. It was the only thing on my mind all day,” she shrugs, as though it were the most simple and obvious thing in the world. Cullen finds himself smiling at her words, and how easily they leave her lips because it _is_ the most simple and obvious thing in the world to her, and that she feels that way about _him_ says more to him than she knows. “We said slower, and you have that look about you.”

“A look about me?”

“That you could use something normal, for once,” she continues. “You have the look of someone who’s seen and been through far more than they should in one lifetime. And you have. I thought instead of dinner over work, or dinner and fighting the urge to throw myself at you we could just... have dinner.”

“And if I decide to throw myself at you?” he murmurs, hand coming up and caressing her cheek as he leans closer. She giggles and he can feel her breath on his cheek.

“Not on the first date,” she responds, his lips just a fraction from hers. He snorts, rests his head on her shoulder as he laughs, oddly amused and mildly frustrated as he’s had a craving for her all day.

“You wound me.”

“That’s not gonna work this time, Commander,” she smirks.

“Fantastic, you’ve found a new game.”

“Not going to play with me this time?”

“Depends on the rules, which you typically don’t play by anyway.”

“But I do this time: date me,” she says, brushing the tip of her nose across his briefly. “Court me, if you're super old fashioned. Do that normal people thing and get to know me and all of my horrible little habits that might drive you nuts. Ask me questions and find out if you really want to spend your time with me. Stuff like that.”

“I want you. I want this,” he states. Why would he even waver? Why would she give him the opportunity to find an excuse to leave?

“But you don’t even know my favourite colour. It wasn’t something that mattered when we were only friends but I know the little details mean more now. I also know that we don’t get nearly as much work done when we do things more or less my way, which bothers you.”

“But I do enjoy it.”

“But is it how you’d do things? No Corypheus, no Inquisition?” she asks. He doesn’t respond. “You said you’re old fashioned, that you’re not opposed to falling in love one day. It’s not precisely how I do things, but this isn’t all about me – it’s about us. And I want you to get what you want.”

“Because you adore me?” he raises a brow.

“Precisely that,” she smiles, breathtakingly sweet. “And also because I respect you, and I think you deserve everything you want. I’d give it to you if I could.”

“So you’ve said before,” he nods, recalling a previous conversation that was exchanged between friends. “And, if I wanted to kiss you right now because that’s...”

“Not on the first date, Commander,” she repeats. “Wow, you’re absolutely terrible at following rules. I should file a complaint to your boss. Or tell Leliana. Or Cassandra. Or _Varric_.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would,” she smirks, rising from her seat before he wraps his arms around her, pulling her down and falling on top of him. “We should eat.”

“We should,” he agrees absently, brushing his thumb across her lower lip before tipping her chin up. He wants to kiss her, and he knows for a fact she wants it, too, but he also knows that if he were to do so, their food would get cold from the amount of time they’d spend on each other. Instead, “Wait... what is your favourite colour, anyway?”

She grins. “It’s pink.”

“Pink?”

“Pink,” she nods. “Do I not look like a pink person to you?”

“I thought you more of a purple person, actually.”

She scoffs, picks up a glass of wine from the table and hands it to him before picking up a small bowl of soup. The rest of their late night dinner date meal isn’t different from their usual late night work dinners, but the change of location is a nice touch.

“No meat?” he asks, watching as she makes her way through potatoes.

“Yes, I’m a hunter who doesn’t eat meat,” she laughs. “I feel bad, actually.”

“I didn’t know that,” he murmurs, cutting through his own plate of food, meat present and still warm, thankfully.

“There are a number of things you don’t know about me,” she smiles coyly.

“Do I have a limited number of questions this time?”

“As I recall, you’re the one who proposed twenty, and then added an extra one. I have given no such rules or limitations.”

“All right, then,” he smirks. “Any hobbies?”

“If I told you, I might have to–“

“Kill me?”

“No, seduce you into my back pocket and have you keep my dirty secrets, or worse: become my partner in crime.”

He chuckles. “I’ll take that risk.”


	46. Cuddle

After departing for another week and a half, she returns to Skyhold, Cullen only catching a glimpse of her on her way in on her dead horse or... can it actually be considered a unicorn?

He doesn’t drop everything and steal her into a corner (much as he wants to, and he’s never _actually_ dropped everything he was holding... they were more like aggressive tosses onto his desk), but rather he sends her a nod and polite smile. It feels like their friendship once more, when he was debating upon his feelings for her and something stirred in his chest when she’d brush her hair from her face then glance at him and smile for the briefest of moments.

His day goes by as it usually does, with the added bonus of her showing up and offering him a cup of tea, as according to her sources (the cat, apparently), he’s been quite restless but tired while she was gone. In truth, he was, and still is; his head is aching, his body tired, preparations for Halamshiral (including mental preparations dealing with Orlesians. Ugh, _Orlesians_ ) have him stressed and worn. She leaves after half an hour, not saying a word but ensuring that his attention stays on anything but his work. Being in her company helps, and when she sends him a look, a question of whether he’ll be fine, he nods and smiles. She knows better than to linger, he doesn’t like it when people hover, and so she offers him that smile... just like the first one that told him there was something there, and giving only his hand a tender squeeze before vanishing, this time into the shadows, the sky growing dark and hints of a storm coming as the day goes on.

She sends him a very cryptic message (the post-script coded in coloured hearts, as well backwards and upside-down numbers or letters) to meet her in her quarters in the evening. Nothing scandalously bad, she promises and swears on the graves of her grandparents and the sunset pink he now knows to be her favourite colour, but she’d written that his presence was absolutely crucial.

When he enters her quarters, something he hasn’t done since they’d became, well, _them_ , Cullen suddenly feels anxious. Though she swore there was nothing inappropriate to be done, neither of them can actually promise to keep their hands off each other, and though nothing’s ever taken them quite too far, he believes that they could take things far enough.

Climbing up the last set of stairs, he can hear her cheer to herself, obviously having heard him open and close the door behind him, and clearly happy to hear him arrive.

“The guards didn’t give you any looks, did they?” she calls out.

“I may not have caught them all,” he breathes, tired. He hears her shuffling to get up, likely having picked up on his current state through inflections alone, meeting him a few steps before the top, offering him an arm he takes without question. “What am I doing here, precisely?”

“A sleepover,” she responds. “Uh, I mean, if that’s... slow enough.”

Cullen is about to open his mouth, not necessarily to protest but to question, when his eyes spot–

“Is that a house? Made of pillows?”

“It’s a _fort_ made of pillows. And a few blankets and other assorted covers.”

“My presence was crucial for a pillow fort?”

“You make it sound so juvenile.”

“I don’t mean to offend, but it is.”

“Only _slightly_ ,” she states sternly. “When I was little, we never had enough pillows or bedrolls for this. Ever since I got a bed, a big, fluffy bed and enough resources to blackmail nine noble houses into my back pocket to fetch me fancy small cakes from anywhere I want, I’ve been dreaming of this.”

“And...?”

“It’s going to storm, and you’re absolutely spent,” she continues, tone going softer. “You also have a giant hole in the roof of your tower. The last thing everyone needs, including you, is an exhausted commander with a cold, and the last thing I want is for you to feel terrible any day of the week.”

“So you’re asking me to stay here with you in your pillow fort?”

“Well when you say it like that you can have the bed and _I’ll_ take my fort,” she pouts.

“I didn’t say no.”

“Wasn’t a yes either,” she points. She then clears her throat, “Commander, will you stay here tonight and do absolutely nothing inappropriate with me?”

He snorts, mildly amused. “Is this our second date, then?”

“Not including our secret late night work dates where nothing happens? Absolutely.”

He scoffs. “We get work done.”

“You make it sound like that’s actually _fun_.”

“It’s fulfilling. And we’re doing our jobs.”

“Fair enough,” she says over her shoulder, going ahead and crawling into the small hole Cullen assumes is the entrance of her pillow fort, and disappearing. All is silent for a few minutes before he sighs, too tired to go back to his likely wet bedroom, the rain having already started to come down in force, and too embarrassed to take her bed from her. The couch, of course, is a viable option, but it’s Orlesian, and too nicely shaped, and thus likely uncomfortable.

Cullen gets on his knees, crawling into the hole where she’d disappearing before finding her insider her fort, the moonlight from her windows just barely shining through the sheet above their heads. The space is surprisingly large enough for the both of them, and she is already on her back, eyes drooping.

“You’re tired,” he observes.

“I did only just return today,” she replies, a yawn following. She moves over, clearly making more space for him directly next to her.

“This is quite... cozy.”

“Too close for comfort?” she asks, sitting up. Cullen shakes his head and lies down next to her, her presence, the snugness of her fort, the sound of the rain of her windows very intimate and comforting.

“It’s... it’s perfect, actually,” he murmurs after giving himself a moment to settle, the softness of pillows beneath him putting most muscles at ease. “I... never mind.”

“Cullen, you can tell me anything.”

“It’s more of a question, actually.”

“Ask away,” she smiles.

“Would it be too soon, this being only our second, for me– for _us_ to... uh...” he starts, unsure as to how to word _cuddling_ without actually using the word ‘cuddle.’ From the countless number of times she’s wrapped her arms around him and he’s held her close during an unpleasant round of pains, he’s come to, well, he doesn’t want to say he relies on her, she’s not just a crutch or something to help him, but... the way she feels is something he thinks he might need; she’s soothing in so very many ways.

She nods, grinning as she rolls over just once and right up next to him. He moves onto his side, wraps an arm around her shoulders as she brings hers around his torso, a team effort pulling her up against his chest where she fits perfectly. She sighs, buries her face into his chest while he rests his chin atop her head.

“To be honest: I did picture you as the cuddling type,” she giggles, leaning her head back and looking up at him. He raises a brow. “Okay, not at first, but after a while I thought: ‘ _he’s definitely a cuddler_.’”

“Don’t like it?” he teases, something she typically asks him. She shakes her head.

“I like a lot of things.”

“Do you now?”

“What can I say? I’m _that_ kind of girl,” she smiles mischievously, inching up to brush her nose against his chin, and then to press her lips to it as well. “Goodnight, Commander.”

He presses his lips to her hair, disregarding the grounds for what they deemed to be _slower_ , as she so clearly has. “Goodnight, Inquisitor.”


	47. never go out of style

Cullen’s eyes shoot open, only for him to find himself inside a small room made completely of pillows and covers, and not in the Gallows back in Kirkwall, large statues of metal coming down to kill him alongside abominations who were once his charges and fellow templars back in Ferelden’s Circle. He absolutely hates how his nightmares have the tendency to blend together.

He takes a deep breath, giving himself a moment to calm down and slow his breathing. How it never feels like a distant memory bothers him to no end. When he shifts in place just slightly, he can feel her next to him and the realization that he’s no back there, but right here, next to her, pulls him forward quicker than usual, and he knows he can relax.

She’s comfortably up against his side, legs tangled between his, a hand on his chest and her head resting on his shoulder, breathing ever so quietly, and evenly.

Cullen brings a hand up to her hair and fiddles with it absently as he watches her form move with the rise and fall of his own breathing – shaky at first, but settling after a while, her presence grounding and the mere feeling of her comforting. Waking up alone after a night of tossing and turning has been something that always makes him think – think about lyrium, then his performance as commander, and before long he’s up all night questioning his fitness before he barely dozes off, and what feels like fifteen minutes passes, then it’s morning. It’s not something that happens every night, though it is frequent enough to hinder him. No one seems to complain however, and Cassandra hasn’t said a word so he must be doing an adequate job, even if he might not think so and as a result, works himself a bit harder. It always takes him a bit of time to readjust to his current surroundings and push his memories back from his mind. He hasn’t bunked with anyone since Kirkwall, though he was taking lyrium then and thus didn’t need it – the company and comfort of another being for him to pull on and take him from his memories.

Waking up with her seems to help. It also helps that they’re closer, and so he can physically hold onto her and have her be his anchor.

He doesn’t want to rely on any herbs or tea to help him sleep. He doesn’t want any sort of substance to be a crutch or he might as well go back to where he started, even if it’s just tea or grounded up herbs; she did specify to take in small doses _if needed_. She’s different. She helps, in various ways – having something and someone to look forward to, to think about, helps him focus on something other than unfortunate events and his past transgressions, as well as keeping him on his toes, training with him to switch up his exercises every now and then and just... keep him going. She keeps his days moving as smoothly as they can with the world falling apart around them.

She gives him something to smile about every day.

He watches as she nuzzles her face into his chest, brows furrowing slightly as she shifts in her spot, trying to get more comfortable. She looks pensive and worn even in her sleep, and Cullen wonders how much work she puts into her job, him, and her own health.

She hums, then murmurs something he doesn’t catch before slowly coming too, a hand coming up to rub at her eyes, her hair a perfect mess, blinking a few times as she notices that she’s not alone this morning, and then looking up at him and smiling tiredly.

Cullen can feel his own heart pounding against his chest, clearly wanting out.

“Morning,” she mumbles sleepily. “Did you sleep well?”

Aside from his morning nightmares, Cullen can’t recall waking in the middle of the night after they turned in for the evening. “Fairly well.”

“Yeah? That’s good,” she murmurs, snuggling up closer to him. “I think I might need another week of sleep. S’what I get for sneaking around at night and doing... things.”

“It’s still early. I think you might be able to squeeze in another hour,” he offers, disregarding her cryptic comment. The less he knows, Cullen thinks, the better.

“Not enough,” she grumbles. “But don’t let me keep you. I know you like to run in the morning.”

“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to stay a bit longer,” he responds, turning on his side and bringing up his other hand to brush her cheek with his thumb, the two of them obviously having shifted positions in their sleep.

“That’s perfectly fine by me.”

“Why, Inquisitor, you sound awfully eager to keep me here.”

“That’s because I am.”

He smiles at her forwardness – she likes him a lot and wants to be with him. She makes effort and puts time into spending time with him, despite how much energy she doesn’t have for it.

“I wish every morning could be this nice,” he says quietly, mostly to himself, though she does look up at him, rubbing at her eyes again as they seem to not want to stay open.

“Do you, really?” she asks, watching him curiously.

Cullen freezes, realizing that _slow_ and _waking up to her every morning_ don’t quite go hand in hand. He averts his gaze, not quite able to meet her eyes as he thinks of an appropriate response. Last night may have been one of the better rests he’s had in a while, and not just because of the abundance of pillows under his back, or because he’s absolutely enamoured with her, because he is. Hopelessly so.

“I... I sleep easier with someone else around, I suppose," he says slowly, flustered too early in the day for him. He glances at her before looking away again, but she brings a hand up to cup his cheek, her thumb brushing softly as she turns his face to look at her. “I apologize, I didn’t mean for it to come out I just...”

“If you want to, then of course,” she smiles, words absolutely serious, but eyes possessing a tenderness that may very well melt his heart. “But to the technical details: your room or mine? Because yours has that hole which isn’t good for rain or snow, and mine has guards on rotation, and I know how much you’d prefer for our private affairs to remain as such; a little hard to keep it that way with you coming and going.”

It takes him a moment to process how seriously she takes his informal request. “This isn’t... this isn’t too quick for you, is it?”

“It’s a first, I’ll admit,” she offers with a breathy, sheepish little laugh, sleepy still. “I’ve never... well, anything with anyone that goes beyond a week is new for me, but this isn’t about whether or not we should speed up or slow down. It’s about whether you think it’ll help. You know I’d do just about anything for you. Especially if it’s for... well, I don’t need to explain that to you.”

“I don’t know how or why you can be so dedicated.”

“Because I adore you, and I care deeply for you. Or have I not told you that today yet?”

“You have now,” he smiles lightly. “But... I don’t want to inconvenience you with my–“

She presses her lips to his, two dates in and taking things slowly be damned, nice and soft, feather light, no playing, no teasing.

“If you want: leave a candle by your bedroom window, and I’ll come, or bring yourself here. The door’s always open for you. If the weather is foul, please come here. Even when I’m gone. Rumours be damned.”

He sighs, eyes scanning her face and taking her in. How is she so...?

“All right.”

“Thank you,” she grins. He plays with her hair briefly before bringing his other hand up to brush her jawline with his knuckles, eyes taking in every little freckle and scar on her face. She doesn’t seem to notice the magnitude of her actions and choices so early in the morning, first thing, opting instead to run her fingers through his hair, brown eyes on his blond locks, a precious little smile on her lips. Cullen on the other hand, watches her quietly, admiring, trying to wrap his mind around how swiftly she makes these decisions because they’re just so obvious and natural to her – it’s natural for her to jump to his side and offer to help him in whatever capacity he needs. He presses his lips to hers and climbs over her, trailing kisses down and past her chin to her neck. “U-um, Cullen...?”

“Mm?”

“I’m not particularly against you and your mouth doing what you’re currently doing, but wasn’t the point of _slow_ to... not do this?”

He glances at her before peppering kisses up her neck again, earning him a moan she bites back. Coming up to her ear, he murmurs, “You just proved you’re too good to be true.”

“I did no such thing,” she exhales sharply. “I just–“

“You did, and since I tend to stutter about with my words, I’d like to show you how much I appreciate the attention you give me in one of the ways I know you’ll enjoy.”

She lets out a shaky breath. “We’re never leaving this fort, are we?”

“Probably not,” he chuckles, nipping at her ear. It's early, and the likelihood of Mother Giselle or anyone else walking in on them is slim.

Forget slow. At least right now.


	48. Good Day

The scandalous rumours of the Inquisitor and Commander return promptly after some odd number of soldiers, scouts, maids, and couriers spot them leaving her quarters together that morning, one elven Inquisitor’s neck covered in love bites that no scarf can hide.

Cullen can feel himself sweat in his armor as their noble guests greet them on their way to the war room together, knowing smiles hidden behind fans, masks, and morning cups of wine. She returns their greetings nonchalantly as though the two of them didn’t walk out of her room hand in hand (which they did), and that their noble guests weren’t going to be decidedly less noble and spread petty gossip about something that doesn’t even concern them (which they no doubt will) as they have nothing better to do with their time, like saving cats from trees (because they have servants for that, naturally). He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand why their relationship is so fascinating. Then again, they are a military organization located in the mountains. There must not be much else to talk about.

It doesn’t make it any less irritating, though.

Leliana’s gaze is particularly smug and unbearable during their meeting in the war room. Josephine even joins in on the teasing, though lightly, not bothering to hide the beautiful smile on her lips as she glances between the two of them as they somehow gravitate towards one another, brush fingers completely by accident, and end up touching one another in some shape or form without realizing. At the end of their meeting both their Spymaster and Lady Ambassador leave quickly, just to give them time alone.

“They know,” he tells her, rounding the table to come to her side.

“I think everyone and their second cousin knows, though we don’t make it very difficult for them to find out, now do we?” she giggles, pushing herself up on her toes to give him a quick kiss to the corner of his lips. “I’ll see you around the fortress.”

As she turns, he reaches out to catch her hand in his, stealing her attention as he tugs lightly, turning her around and pulling her waist into his arm, his free hand coming up to brush her hair to the side before kissing her neck.

“Commander...” she warns. “I’m not usually the one to be serious, but we do have a busy day ahead of us.”

“Five more minutes, Inquisitor. Please. I beg of you," he murmurs by her ear, feeling the way she shivers at his words.

“I’d like nothing more,” she sighs, reluctantly prying herself from his arms. “But we both know five minutes could turn into twenty, and you’re going to run out of room to leave little marks on my neck.”

He sighs. “Right. Slowly then.”

“Well, no,” she says innocently. “I can come to you at the end of the day.”

“Oh? Have another date planned for us? You realize I’ll need to return the favour. You’re not giving me much chance to do so at the rate you’re going.”

She laughs. “No, not today.”

“Then what, if I may ask?”

“Well I did say if you want, we could go to bed together.”

“You did,” he nods, heat rising to his cheeks slightly.

“But I’m not really one to fall asleep so quickly,” she continues, “so I’ll be all yours. In private, no interruptions, no work.”

“U-uh, so...”

“Anything you want.”

“A-anything?” he gapes. “That’s... that’s quite, uh, quite broad.”

“You can braid my hair, ooh, and we can stay up all night gossiping about beautiful women, and a few good looking men while we’re at it,” she winks, playful yet soothing, though the implications of _anything_ still float about in his mind. “I’ve actually been getting a few looks from this lord’s daughter. I think she likes me.”

“Does she now?” he chuckles.

“She might. Or she might be trying to seduce me into her back pocket, Inquisitor and all that fun business. I always did have a weakness for blondes generously out of reach," she shrugs. “Not that it matters, of course.”

“No?”

“Well, you see,” she starts, motioning for him to lean in, “I’m so hopelessly taken with another.”

“Are you now?”

“Mhm, I am,” she continues, her arms coming to wrap around his waist. “I actually have plans with him this evening.”

“Oh? Mind sharing them with me?”

“Well they’re not set in stone, but I’m certain I’ll come up with something throughout the day,” she grins, tilting her head to the side. “I do hope he braids my hair, though. There’s just something about his touch and the way he runs his fingers through my hair, twirls some of it that’s so... seductive. And calming.”

“Seductive? Really?”

“And _calming_ , but you’ve obviously never had someone touch you the way he does,” she smirks. “He’s not small, and he doesn’t have my hands. He’s a warrior, he’s strong, imposing, and Commander of the Inquisition, you see. He’s rough. And often times quite scary according to the soldiers. But he’s so very gentle with me, and not in a delicate manner as though I might break, but respectful and tender.”

Cullen snorts. “I’ll braid your hair.”

“You’re the best,” she beams.

“I have had someone touch me in the way you describe, though.”

“Oh? A little naughtily, I hope.”

He scoffs. “No, _you_ haven’t – you’ve actually been quite respectful and tender yourself. You have excellent hands.”

“Mhm, so I’ve heard,” she grins. “I don’t think you have enough hair for me to braid, however. Sad, really.”

“Yes, what a shame.”

“I’ll see you tonight?”

“I’m hoping.”

“I won’t disappoint.”

“You never do.”


	49. Buds

The idea of her coming to him and crawling into his bed with him is incredibly... well, it’s something that makes him flustered almost immediately.

Before she can make it to him for her typical evening visit, however, she is intercepted by Josephine and some noble guest, forced to play host. She does manage to send him a small letter, though, one that apologizes and informs him of what had happened, alongside a few flowers and other assorted doodles along the edges of the small slip of paper.

He smiles, her note just off to the side of his desk as he sits and does his own work, periodically glancing at it and just... how is she even real? Who does this anymore? He and the other advisors send each other memos attached to reports, of  course, alongside a messenger who will convey anything they choose, but... passing notes? Short notes, at that, with doodles all over them. Who has the time? And just... how do they make it to him without a courier, maid, or messenger attached?

Cullen sighs, scolding himself for getting distracted instead of working, opening the drawer to his desk to drop her message in alongside all her other little random gifts and notes. His bottle-vase sits by her spot on his desk, empty for the past few weeks, likely from the fact that they’ve spent nearly every moment they could together, not giving her much time to sneak something in. Also given the fact that they were no longer playing any of her odd games, she probably didn’t need to.

Try as he may to focus, Cullen finds himself smiling stupidly again. Red tulips first, from “thin air,” because she’s magical, a very serious secret she trusted him with and he laughed. She stuck one in the fur of his coat, another in her hair, leaving maybe ten for him to take back to his office? He recalls the looks he’d gotten from the soldiers on patrol. At Adamant she snuck a yellow paper tulip into his coat again. He always meant to ask her, but never got around to it. Then she left him the book sometime after, another thing he hadn’t gotten around to looking at, though he figured he didn’t need to. Not anymore.

Her gestures then seemed friendly and well-meaning, but thinking now, at least from when she called him out and after, maybe she... hm.

He digs his hand into the drawer, searching for her yellow tulip that would never die before pulling it out and leaving his office. He doesn’t get much farther than a few steps outside his tower, however, as he spots her across the walk, a flower with a large blossom in hand.

“Well, I’ve been made,” she remarks, grinning sheepishly as they close the distance between them. He brings a hand up to brush his knuckles across her cheek, moving downward to tip her chin up slightly before pressing his lips to hers. She hums and smiles, the tip of her nose grazing his for a moment, and then, “Hi.”

“I haven’t seen you since this morning,” he breathes, resting his forehead against hers, closing his eyes.

“That sounds like a complaint, Commander.”

“I considered filing one, actually.”

“Oh, no, what would my superiors say?” she murmurs, his hands coming down to hold hers, only for one to run into the flower in her hand.

“What’s that?”

“A peony,” she grins, eyes meeting his as he opens them. “I was hoping you might be asleep so I could break into your office and leave it in the bottle.”

“You were going to break and enter?”

“A victimless crime,” she winks.

“Of many, I’m sure.”

She giggles. “You have no idea.”

“Does it mean something?” he asks, bringing her hand and the flower up between them.

“It does,” she responds coyly. “Why so curious?”

“I never asked before.”

“Mhm.”

“And you left me a book.”

“I did indeed. You didn’t look at it, did you?”

“No. Should I?”

She hums, biting her lip in thought for a moment before finding her answer. “It might’ve sped things up a bit. Depended mostly on you.”

“And what would speeding things up have accomplished?”

“Well I might already be in your bed, maybe naked, maybe not. And this,” she wiggles the peony in her hand, “would be in that bottle on your desk.”

It’s his turn to bite his lip, smiling as he does and shaking his head as he feels his ears burning up. She’s so... well, _her_. And honestly, he sort of missed the teasing. He takes the paper tulip from his fur mantle, however, and holds it up to her. “What about this?”

“You’ve got a book somewhere in there. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“But I’m asking you,” he presses, brushing his nose across hers. She giggles, a vibrant smile on her lips. “Please?”

“Oh, the magic word,” she sighs, relenting. “Happy thoughts. And sunshine. It seemed appropriate at the time.”

“Adamant.”

“You remember.”

“How could I forget?”

“It used to... ah, never mind.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, nothing,” she says lightly, avoiding eye contact and grinning too mischievously.

“What are you hiding?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m withholding a little bit of information. Completely trivial. You don’t need to know it.”

“But if I wanted to?” he raises a brow, arms around her waist. Nothing she ever did was completely unintentional. He knows that now, and knowing that she wanted cheerful thoughts and sunshine with him while they fought the Grey Wardens, well. He has to.

“You’re going to have to coax it out of me,” she smirks. “But just so you know: I don’t crack during interrogations. Nerves. Of. _Steel_. Ask Cassandra.”

He chuckles, removing his arms from her waist and bends down to pick her up. She squeals, laughing as the sound, so delightfully bright, echoes through the fortress, garnering a few looks from the guards on patrol. Cullen, with his dear Inquisitor in his arms, turns towards his office.

“What if we struck a deal?” he inquires.

“You’re going to have to get me an army of mabari puppies and like, nine hundred and three trees. Precisely.”

“Precisely?”

“Nine hundred and three trees plus an army of puppies or no deal, Commander,” she all but sings, switching the peony to her other hand as she opens the door for the both of them.

He smirks, inches forward to brush his nose against hers again, lips ghostly touching hers in the process, watching as she bites her lip, eyes on his scar. “I’ll think of something.”


	50. teenage dream

They've only gone to bed together twice so far, but Cullen sighs, too content to really care.

“I could get used to this.”

“Mm,” she looks up at him, eyes having been on their hands, palms flat against each other as she observes the differences between the length of their fingers or some other detail. She shifts her digits slightly, letting them fall between his before she curls them around his hand, Cullen following before she pulls his forward, pressing her lips to the back. “Me, too.”

A breeze passes through his room, and though it does little to him, she shivers.

“I should probably have that hole fixed,” he muses, releasing her hand and pulling her closer. She buries her face into his chest, arms covered in goosebumps as he rubs his hands up and down, trying to keep her warm.

“It’s nice though,” she says while shaking slightly, voice muffled by his shirt. “The sky and stars. Even the Breach, a little. And the sounds. Just the wind. It’s kind of musical, you know?”

“Mhm.”

He fiddles with her hair, watches as her form rises and falls to her breathing.

“Not gonna go running?” she asks after a moment.

“If I have you here, I likely won’t ever go running in the morning again,” he chuckles.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he smiles, pressing his lips to her hair. “You’re impossible to resist. I can’t imagine anyone would ever be able to tear themselves away for anything.”

“Are you trying to seduce me first thing in the morning?” she questions. She shifts in his arms, moving herself up so she might meet him at eye level.

“Depends on whether or not it’s working,” he laughs dryly. “And if it’s not, I’d ask that you pretend I never said that.” Honestly, it’s almost as bad as him trying to compliment her hands. He _still_ can’t forget that, as much as he wants to.

“But you just told me that I’m irresistible,” she protests. “How could I ever forget _that?_ And it’s absolutely working, in case you were curious. Consider me terribly seduced. You’re brilliant at this.”

He scoffs, pulling her on top of him as she squeals, giggling. Their breath is sour from the morning, but again, he could care less because really, was there ever a better start to his day?

She kisses him, one... two... three, on and on, nice and slow and soft and utterly, utterly affectionate. He can feel the smile on her lips against his as she brings a finger to brush his cheek, scratching at his stubble just for a moment before their lips part, and she brushes her nose against his, a seeming favourite of hers as he sits up, taking her with him. He returns the brush, garnering one very bright smile and Maker, he can hear his heart pounding up in his ears. She presses another feather light kiss to his lips, then catches the lower of his between hers, and with a slight bite, steals a little gasp from him.

Cullen parts his lips more, he knows – her tongue – and he wants. He wants her to slip it past his teeth, caress his, he wants breathless kisses, long and deep because he adores it. He wants her to make him gasp and moan as she always does, and he wants to hear her, too. He wants her to dig her fingers into his hair as she does, and keep the one she had previously roaming his chest to stay where it is now – right above his heart so she can feel the way she makes it race because it’s pounding against his chest, and he's fairly certain it wants out.

He wants – wants her to take his breath away, all of it, and she does. Oh, she does and does and _does_.

When their lips part, and for a moment Cullen actually resents that he needs to take a breath, he brings a hand up to lazily stroke her cheek with his thumb, eyes more preoccupied with her lips and how they’re parted just slightly, breathing in and out, light little curves teasing the corners of her lips as her own eyes are downcast.

He brings a hand to the one she has on his chest, lifts her fingers to his lips and kisses each digit, trailing more to her palm, wrist, up her arms as she giggles. This morning is too perfect, she’s just–

“Commander!” someone shouts, banging on his door from below. Cullen is just a fraction from her lips, having caught his breath and ready for her to take every last one away again before more pounding. “Commander?”

“This seems to be a recurring thing,” she sighs, eyes closed with a faint smile, though he can tell she’s quite disappointed.

“Thirty seconds, I promise,” he tells her, planting a quick kiss to her cheek as she removes herself from his lap.

“I’ll be a week or so, maybe longer.”

“I – wait, what?” he turns around, the banging shifting into a lazy knock. “You’re leaving again?”

She offers a shrug, explaining Orlais, her noble guest from the night before and a much needed trip to the Emerald Graves. The situation isn't so dire that a meeting to discuss the matter before departure is required. Still, it seems important enough for her to leave as soon as she's able. Cullen knows he shouldn’t be disappointed, but for whatever reason, he is, and she is as well.

“And here I thought I could get used to mornings like this,” she murmurs, pulling one of his pillows into her lap and hugging it.

“When you get back,” he starts, taking her hand and stroking the back with his thumb, “we’re picking up precisely where we left off.”

“How about in precisely thirty seconds we pick up where we left off?” she offers, tilts her head to the side, that devilish little grin on her face. “I don’t have to leave just yet, and we can be quick about it. I don’t want to leave without a very proper goodbye.”

“Thirty seconds,” he grins, sliding down his ladder to answer the door. A messenger of course, with a report from Rylen regarding the varghest and the water supply in the Approach. Something tells Cullen, however, that the message was more for both himself and the Inquisitor, which only meant that someone tipped him off as to her location. Probably Leliana. Or maybe the fact that they left her room the night before was a bit of a clue. “Thank you. Dismissed.”

“Of course, Commander,” the messenger responds absently, eyes glancing up towards the ceiling, seemingly waiting for something. She’s quieter than that, and probably still sitting on his bed, feet not touching his creaky wooden floor. She knows.

Twenty-three seconds now.

The messenger moves slowly, turning on his heel casually, and the fact that Cullen has a girl waiting for him in his room makes him only want to pick the messenger up and throw him out the door. Well, no, she’s not a _girl_ , and he isn’t a _boy_. They’re adults, maybe still sneaking around like adolescents but they _are_ adults.

It does feel a little nice to do something a normal nineteen year old would’ve done, though.

Slamming the door shut behind the man, Cullen practically sprints to his ladder, climbing up to find her on her back and by the corner of his bed, staring out the hole.

“Thirty-seven seconds,” she grins.

“He took his time.”

“I noticed,” she giggles. “Was he trying to catch me in your room or something of the sort?”

“I think so.”

She snorts. “I’m a little better than that.”

“I know you are,” he smiles. Cullen makes for his bed, taking a seat next to her and offering her an arm, which she takes with both hands, pulling herself up. “Now, where were we, precisely?”

“I have another forty-five minutes before I have to leave for Val Royeaux. Give or take ten.”

“Mhm, plenty of time,” he murmurs, tangling his fingers in her hair before leaning forward to press his lips to hers.

She’s roughly twenty minutes late meeting her team for departure on the bridge. Cullen, on the other hand, gives up on his armor and all its buckles, instead rushing to meet his lieutenants to oversee more training of the newer recruits, fumbling to button up his coat while simultaneously trying to fix his hair, the sensation of her small calloused fingers running through his locks lingering about in his mind, as well as the feeling of her lips trailing down his neck.

He sends a very scary look to anyone who tries to ask him about what the little marks starting just under his ear and ending roughly at the base of his throat are.


	51. une part de bonheur

Upon her return she doesn’t really get to take off her boots and dig her toes into the mud and grass in the garden like she enjoys. In fact, her return is followed by her departure, followed by more war table meetings where he can barely have an honest to goodness private conversation with her. Or a private not-conversation with her. Followed by more leavings and comings and leaving again and again. And then again. Because of reasons.

Xenon the Antiquarian, Red Templars on the Coast, Freemen in the Graves, a rift here, a rift across the map that’s terrorizing so many people, darkspawn and that varghest in the Western Approach (Rylen sends a letter where she says “hi,” and of course, somehow he figures it out based on that alone), the declining ram population in the Hinterlands, bandits in Crestwood, renegade Templars and rogue mages set up in remote locations, dragons, two this time, something else in the Hinterlands, and then another thing in the Hinterlands because it’s the _Hinterlands_ and just... Andraste help her.

She returns to the fortress just shy of two and a half months, a few days in and asleep in the barn with Ser Bobbert before departing again scattered in between before she gets to spend at least another week and half at Skyhold to rest and change her team. They’re bloody tired, too. At the very least, however, they don’t need to be there to close every rift.

It’s his turn to tend to her needs, and he doesn’t mind. He’s actually looking forward to it – returning the favour for consuming all her free time because this schedule, leaving and travelling for a month or more, is normal for her, and upon her return she has countless other things to deal with which he, Josephine, and Leliana have already minimized for her. How she manages to make the time for anyone is beyond him. He has about a dozen reports to give to her, too, in fact, reports he’s tucked into a book and will hide from her sight before she throws it into her fireplace or off her balcony. Or both.

He also has a cup of tea for her. She likes jasmine and an unnaturally large amount of honey. It’s something he found out by accident one late night dinner date when he thought it was his cup. It doesn’t taste that bad, actually.

When he enters her room, he finds her curled into a ball in front of her fireplace, accompanied by another little ball of orange fur, presumably the cat, against her back.

“Leave it on the desk...” she mumbles, not bothering to look up or unravel herself. He does as instructed, coming down to kneel next to her, placing a hand on her arm as she rolls over in protest. “Nooooooooooo. _No_. And _do not_ tell Josephine I’m being childish.”

“You’re not going to let me help you into bed?”

“I’m quite fond of sleeping anywhere, actually. Dalish and all that,” she responds, and he can hear the tired smile through her voice. She unravels herself immediately, turning to look at him with just... that look; she’s absolutely spent and yet she has the capacity to smile so brightly at him, inch forward and brush her nose against his, then kiss the corner of his lips gently. “I’m going to be very clingy and say that I really missed you. And the cat. But mostly you. And sleep.”

“Don’t tell her that,” he murmurs, offering her an arm as he pulls her up. She winces slightly, favouring her right side before he bends down to pick her up.

“It’s literally a few metres away,” she protests, though he can tell she’s not quite up to any playful banter at the moment, eyes closed as the words leave her lips.

“You’re hurt.”

“But I’m not dying,” she says with a yawn.

“But you _are_ tired. Please,” he implores, bringing her to the side of her bed and setting her down. A team effort, he pulls the covers open for her to get under as she works on setting her pillows up just right, and removing her arms from around his neck.

“Gonna tuck me in, too?”

“Only if you want me to.”

“That would be quite nice, actually,” she mumbles, rolling onto her side. “Wake me up in an hour?”

“I’ll wake you up in seven,” he says lightly, walking across her room to fetch her tea, placing it on the table next to her bed.

“Is there a lot of honey in there?”

“The bee population is offended by how much you take from them.”

“Bah, I’m too tired to even quip right now,” she murmurs, drinking nearly her entire cup in one go.

Cullen seats himself on her bed. “Do you need anything else?”

“Is anyone going to sneak into Skyhold and kill me in my sleep?” she counters, eyes closed. “Now would be most apropos.”

“I think we’re quite secure for now,” he smiles. He’s not certain she catches that, however, and he pulls the covers up to her shoulders, pressing his lips to her hair tenderly before she makes a sound, something like a grumble, and her fingers are curling around his wrist.

“I know it’s silly but... could you stay? For a bit.”

He twists his hand, holding her wrist and brushing it with his thumb for a moment before letting go, moving to her couch to discard his armor, then returning to her side and taking a seat in the space she’d made for him.

Always with a bit of his job with him, Cullen works quietly as she sleeps, not having the heart to leave her to wake up alone, just as she doesn't for him if she can help it. The hours pass by amicably as he occasionally lifts her hand to brush his lips across her knuckles, or brushing her hair from her face, none of it waking her up. Several maids and messengers come and go, one bringing Cullen the rest of his work, another stopping to ask whether the Inquisitor was ill.

“No, she’s simply resting,” he tells her quietly. The maid opens her mouth to ask something else, but closes it, eyes moving between the two of them.

“Do you need anything, Commander?” she asks, a light smile on her lips. “Does she?”

He’s silent for a moment; she’s not sick, nor severely injured, but he’s never actually seen her so exhausted before. He has no doubt, however, that she’ll insist on jumping back to work the moment she wakes up. Or, at the very least, would want to eat.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he responds politely, “and if the Inquisitor requires anything, I won’t trouble you. I’m certain she’ll have something up her sleeve before she wakes up.”

“Of course,” the maid giggles. “Good evening, Commander.”

With a bow, she disappears down the staircase, the metal clang of the door a little too loud.

“That’s Anna, and she’s going to tell everyone that you wait on me, hand and foot,” Lav murmurs, followed by a yawn. She opens her eyes, smiling tiredly up at him. “Fancy meeting you here, Commander.”

He chuckles. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“How long have I been asleep?” she questions, taking his hand and lacing her fingers between his, pressing her lips to the back. “A hundred years? Two hundred?”

“A few hours,” he replies. “How do you feel?”

“Moderately rested, and still a little sore from a few scuffles. But not bad,” she sighs. “Waking up next to you isn’t so bad either.”

He scoffs. “You wound me.”

“Would be perfect if you were under here with me, though.”

“Ah,” he grins. “I would like nothing more than to oblige, but as your advisor I suggest we eat first.”

“Is it that late?”

“No, I think we might be able to have dinner in the hall with everyone else.”

“Like normal people? Eating at a reasonable hour?” she asks in disbelief. “ _Us?_ Really?”

Cullen can’t explain why, but ‘ _us’_ has a nice ring to it. They’ve been _them_ for quite some time now, but typically alone, and in private. Although everyone in the fortress seems to know about them as anywhere along the battlements isn’t quite the most secretive of places, plus all the chess games in the garden, and the time they walked from her quarters together hand in hand, they’ve never quite been so open about their relationship as to dine together. At least not in the hall where everyone would be watching.

Usually he has work, and takes his food in his office, or at best, with Varric or Cassandra. Sometimes both, and Maker, what a meal those turn out to be.

She’s typically entertaining a set of noble guests, there are so many and Josephine believes it to be wise to get to know them intimately. Lav doesn’t mind either, since she learns a lot through interaction, and she told him that she enjoys studying nobles and their behaviour. The times they request her presence for breakfast or lunch, he typically gets her for a late night dinner.

“Do you have any guests to entertain this evening?” he asks lightly. He doesn’t want to steal her from her work, and he had been with her all day, even if she was asleep the entire time. He doesn’t want to be... well, overbearing, and doesn’t want to take what precious time left she has of her day from her.

“I don’t,” she responds quietly, brushing some hair behind her ear. “But I know that you would prefer our private affairs to remain as such, despite our very poor efforts to keep them so. Just being together in front of people is really obvious, and I don’t want to do anything to make you uncomfortable.”

“Is it?” he asks, blushing at how she takes something he’d said a while back into consideration still. “Obvious, I mean.”

“According to Varric, I...” she says, her turn to be flustered, averting her gaze and rubbing her arms, “I look at you like you’re the sun.”

“You do look at someone like they’re the only person in the world who matters. I would know,” he notes. She laughs, breathy and bashful, cheeks a little red as well as the tips of her ears. “I meant it as a compliment.”

“I know, and thank you, I just...“

“You have no idea how you make people feel, do you?” he smiles, moving to brush her hair behind her ear, something he finds she does when she’s nervous or embarrassed, beating her to it. Every little thing for him – something for pains, something for headaches, something for sleep, comfort if he wants or needs it, going to bed together if he wishes, little gifts to keep him smiling through the day, odd things to invade his dreams and make them less nightmare-ish, even if she doesn’t even realize it, training with him to keep him on his toes, playing games with him to take a break from work.

Not eating in the hall because he’s private and she doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

Just... every little thing on top of how she looks at him, even now that they’re together and have been just so for quite a while, makes him feel like he’s the most important person in the world – the only one she’s paying attention to. She picks up every detail, minor or no, and remembers them, then helps him or does what she can to make his days just a fraction better, which, because she cares to do so, makes them infinitely so.

“What’s my favourite colour?” he asks suddenly, seemingly needing to prove a point to her.

“Sorry?” she tilts her head to the side, confused, but nevertheless doesn’t need more than a second to respond. “It’s red, like a mahogany red. Why?”

“How do I like my tea?”

“As it is – the very opposite of how I take mine, but what’s the p–“ she starts, but is interrupted as Cullen leans forward, pressing his lips to hers, arms coming around her to pull her closer. She does half the work for him, climbing over and onto his lap as his lips trail downward, past her chin, throat, to her collarbone, and just shy of her breasts because he’d like to believe he’s something of a gentleman. One of his hands comes up to tilt her chin down as he brushes the tip of his nose across hers gently, garnering a smile. “I’m not complaining, but what was that for?”

“I’m not quite certain you’re aware of how incredible you are.”

“Are you trying to seduce me again?” she eyes him, equal parts suspicious and playful, regaining some of what makes her _her:_  bubbly and bright.

“Is it working?”

“Very much so,” she smiles. “Do you think I could send for food and spend the rest of my day right here?”

“ _Right here?_ ” he asks slowly, running his hands up her legs. She giggles, nodding.

“Well, if you have the time, of course,” she adds.

“I can make time,” he says, earning a smile. It’s short lived, however, as a knock on her door which opens without her inviting her guest in happens, and before long one of Josephine’s messengers alongside Anna is handing Lav an invitation to join a Lord Dubois for dinner. In forty-five minutes.

Unlike the messengers who travel between Leliana and himself, Josephine’s are more composed and graceful, as well as better at hiding their fear and discomfort, if they even have any.

Josephine’s line of work possesses a quality of importance that few can ignore, and requires a delicate hand which, in turn, requires everyone else in the Inquisition to be mindful of their actions, too. Well, except Leliana. More often than he’d like, Cullen has to take care in what he and the Inquisition’s forces do, and apparently such is the case for the Inquisitor herself, even if she sits at the very top.

She grumbles, running her left hand through her hair while promptly flicking the card towards her desk. Turning to the messenger, a woman older than Cullen by five years or so, she asks, “Can I pretend that I have a choice in this matter?”

“If you’d like, your Worship,” the lady smiles. She folds her hands together, straightening just slightly, and waiting as Anna giggles, not saying a word. No doubt she’d been tasked with helping the Inquisitor get ready. Cullen typically doesn’t intrude on her, but on the occasion he’s spotted Lav entertaining a very wealthy guest or two, she’d look like a doll, dressed up in elaborate gowns or suits, corsets, random things in her hair and other... ah, he doesn’t keep up. He vaguely recalls a conversation they had about how Madame de Fer explained the importance of image. She doesn’t mind, after all she told him that she never had the opportunity to even touch such luxurious and beautiful things, but it’s sometimes a lengthy process, and sometimes she doesn’t like the things they put her in.

“Perfect: _no_ ,” Lav says flatly, resting her forehead on Cullen’s shoulder. He snorts, one of his hands coming up to rub her back. He’s not quite certain of what he can do in this situation, his dear Inquisitor still seated in his lap, effectively keeping him in place.

“Inquisitor,” the lady messenger says, patient but warning, her tone filled with a familiarity that tells Cullen that they’ve done this countless times before.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Lav sighs, waving a hand as she removes herself from his lap. She places her hand on his shoulder for a moment, giving it a squeeze in the process, and Cullen turns his face, shifting his shoulder forward and pressing a kiss to her knuckles briefly. There’s really no point in pretending that they’re not as close as they are with the amount of people who have been in and out of her room today, speaking with him. “Do I need to put shoes on?”

“Yes, your Worship, you do.”

“Do I have to look nice? I’m too tired to look nice. Can I do this tomorrow? I’d rather do this tomorrow. I feel like I might open a wound tonight. And I’m bruised. What if I still smell like druffalo and rams? What if I fall asleep face first into my very fancy Orlesian meal because Lord Dubois is a terrible conversation partner?”

The lady messenger sends Cullen a look, a hopeless little look asking him to help her because Maker, she’s being difficult on purpose. He chuckles, shaking his head no as he gets up as well, going to put his armor back on.

“You’re leaving?” Lav asks at the clink of his armor. Her voice is unsurprised, but nevertheless a little disappointed. “Never mind. Of course. I’ll see you.”

He offers her a smile, watches as both Anna and Josephine’s messenger make their way to Lav’s dresser, finding something suitable to Josephine’s taste to dress up their doll. Cullen in turn, moves to steal her for a moment, presses his lips to hers as she sighs, leaning into him and seemingly never wanting to leave her spot in his arms.

“If I’m not stuck out there, I’m stuck in the fortress playing house,” she grumbles. “Can you please come during this dinner and steal me away for an urgent matter?”

“Which urgent matter would you like?” he chuckles.

“I don’t know. Cassandra and Varric are in a heated debate about the fate of the protagonist of _Swords and Shields_. Dorian requires my assistance for something incredibly magical. Vivienne demands my presence – no one would question her. Cole went missing, you have something very important to discuss with me,” she pleads. “Anything. Just... I can’t do this. I need some time to just do nothing.”

“Ah, Inquisitor, we have something!” Anna calls, waving a hand.

“Duty calls,” he says, pressing his lips to her cheek. “I’ll think of something.”

“You’re the best.”

Descending her staircase, he thinks about something to actually help, not just with avoiding a mandatory dinner when she’d rather sit in bed all day and sleep off two and a half month’s worth of work. He’s read the reports of her work in the field – there’s an incredibly large amount of little things she does for random people, as well. Keeping her in the fortress would only force her to entertain more guests. Based on her complaints, she’d probably need somewhere away from Skyhold, somewhere quiet and without rifts or problems she’ll likely run to solve. Somewhere she can take off her shoes and just–

_Ah._

He’s got it.


	52. je t'adore

Cullen decidedly returns to his office, skimming her incredibly lengthy field reports of what had happened. He _does_ need to give her time to actually do her job, and whatever Josephine requires of her from this dinner – a potential alliance, coin, resources, whatever.

Lady Montilyet would murder them both if he interrupted before they got to dessert.

Her field reports typically don’t require much of a thorough read. Any pressing issues or curious finds are typically discussed in the war room, and whoever is tasked with overseeing the solution they all come to has a little extra work to do, but they have the gist of it.

Apparently one of her many quests in the Hinterelands involved delivering flowers and cleaning a tombstone for a widow in a bear-infested area. By herself.

One of his hands comes up to cover his mouth as he lets out a laugh. It’s just so... well, _sweet_.

Her report, filled with scattered annotations states that she left her team to complete the task (read: her team was exhausted, and so she allowed them to rest while she tended to the matter herself), one guard at the camp nearby accompanying her (read: the guard insisted).

Her annotations, abundant little pieces of torn parchment, covered with doodles, some by Sera, remind her to revisit the widower, and bring him some flowers as well, in addition to making her report infinitely less formal, chronicling details such as Varric falling into a puddle that was so deep he could have drowned. Solas snorted as she stepped in, water up to her elbows, to pull him out. Both their feet got a little stuck in the mud and they spent their evening without boots and socks.

Curious, what with the way her little notes stick out of her thick reports, Cullen skims the others. She went to scatter ashes at a specific area in the Graves, getting attacked by giants making the trip there, then a surprise attack from red templars, then in Crestwood she went to check on a friend for someone. Back in the Hinterlands she went to get more royal elfroot in an area littered with dragonlings for someone at the crossroads, and then went to get a potion and the recipe from a son who joined that cult to his parents. Other little side adventures follow, and Maker, he’d like to see all of this – see her at work, and help her. She has help, of course, her team and the Inquisition’s soldiers, but she could send the scouts and guards to do all that for her. She doesn’t.

He would give a lot to be one of her companions on her adventures, accompanying her around as she picks royal elfroot for someone. He imagines she finds these little tasks fun, scattered between fighting demons and battling Venatori over and over. It must be nice to do something normal.

Having finished skimming her little notes, Cullen decides to send for her, as requested. They’re probably starting dessert now, and by the time he finishes writing the note and having a messenger deliver it, she’ll finish. She does love her sweets.

He writes that there’s an urgent matter in the war room, catching a messenger on his way out and instructing them to slip it to her discreetly.

The trek back into the fortress is a quiet one, and Cullen takes a moment to work out his plan. It’s time-sensitive, after all, given their line of work and positions, but it should be fine. Just a few days, and it _is_ a business trip, one where he does leave the fortress, and she of course, leaves all the time. Leliana can send word if anything requires his attention, and if any rifts open up she can leave from Ferelden, meeting her team at the location, travelling with some of their soldiers if necessary. Or him.

A few of the cooks remain as Cullen passes through the kitchen, greeting them on his way. They nod, continuing to clean up so they might turn in for the evening, meaning that her business dinner should be coming to a close. He smiles to himself at his timing – she’d be proud – and he climbs up the stairs. Josephine isn’t present in her office, likely having gone to bed, or perhaps having wine with Leliana, as it’s something they do every few evenings. Cullen joins them every now and then, the three of them discussing work, the two of them teasing him, or perhaps all three talking about random things like the bunny on the map, or being together in silence before dragging themselves to their rooms to sleep, too tired for any conversation.

He makes a mental note to get Gatsi to fix the hole in the hall to the war room before pushing the two large doors open. Once he steps inside he spots a slight poof of red fabric atop the table, two sets of toes in some fancy lace socks sticking out from underneath. She actually beat him to the war room.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she sings, sitting up to meet his gaze. “Now what was this urgent matter that likely would’ve taken us the rest of the evening to discuss?”

“I missed you,” he responds, earning a very bright smile from his dear Inquisitor. “Did you have any trouble slipping away?”

“Lord Dubois is a charming elderly man who’s quite to the point,” she explains, “a first, but we managed to come to an agreement rather quickly, and amicably. I’m having a garden breakfast with him tomorrow. And I’m fairly certain he knows about us, so he didn’t mind letting me go.”

“Who doesn’t,” Cullen rolls his eyes.

“He said he knows what it’s like to be young and to have a special elven friend.”

“Oh, so we’re friends?”

“We’re _special friends_ ,” she corrects.

“Is that so?” he asks, smirking. “What do special friends do, then?”

“Come now, Commander. At this point you should know that I’d rather show than tell.”

She stretches her arms out, hands open and inviting him over. He takes a few steps forward, weaving his fingers between hers before one of his boots kicks what he assumes to be one of her shoes.

“I take it your shoes aren’t the most comfortable,” he comments, spotting the other on the ground, likely having been taken off and tossed without a care.

“I’m actually getting used to them,” she says, scooting over on the table for him to join her, and he does. “Vivienne, Josephine, and Leliana had two trunks or so custom made from Val Royeaux. They have me wearing them as often as they can so I can walk like I was born in them.”

“And can you?”

“You’ll have to ask someone with an expert eye. I think I’m convincing enough, but Leliana sees right through me, and there’s something about my face that gives me away,” she jokes, glancing at him briefly before winking with the eye circled by her tattoo.

“I never asked you if it meant something,” he comments, fingers coming up to trace the ink on her face, though stopping short.

“Indeed you did not.”

“Is it... would it be offensive if I touched them?”

“If it is I don’t really care,” she shrugs, snickering.

“That, um...” he starts, pausing for a moment to consider his words, “that I’m human never bothered you?”

“That I’m Dalish never bothered you?” she counters, raising a brow while grinning. A light smile finds its way to his lips as his fingers trace the lines on her face.

“You already know my position on that.”

“I do.”

“But I never asked for yours.”

“You did not,” she nods.

“May I?”

“If must know,” she shrugs lightly, “the tattoo is for Sylaise, one of my gods. The hearthkeeper. Doesn’t really suit me that much to most, but it looks nice.”

“But you... did you choose it?” For whatever reason he was expecting a bit more of a... well, not profound, but a deeper meaning.

“Sort of,” she makes a face. “Before he died, my grandfather told my brother and I to stay together – that we were home.”

“But your clan...” he raises a brow.

“Have you met me, Cullen?”

He leans forward, rubbing the tip of his nose across hers. “I have.”

“Not everyone finds me and my delightful sense of humour as endearing as you do,” she chuckles, breathy and just the slightest bit flustered, one of his favourites. “I chose Sylaise because she’s practical. To me, anyway – she taught the people how to make something out of nothing. Well, nature; whatever’s on hand, really, and making it more. At least, that’s my interpretation. And it’s my face, so.”

“Mhm, I can see that,” he remarks. “And, uh...”

“You being human?” she raises a brow. “Well, I quite like how big you are, your height, arms, all that, and you’re not too tall that I need to stand on a chair to reach you.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m serious.”

“Okay, okay,” she laughs, hand coming up for her fingers to graze the scar by his lip. She leans in closely, the tip of her nose touching his on purpose with a smile on her lips, kissing him faintly before backing up again. He exhales, shaking his head slightly before he moves forward, catching her lips with his, arms coming to pull her closer and into his lap once more. Two months apart and a few minutes together in her room is _not_ enough.

“This isn’t quite an answer,” he murmurs against her lips. He’s not complaining, however.

“I’m illustrating my point. If I cared about you being human, I probably wouldn’t do this,” she responds, pressing her lips to his, then carefully curling her fingers around his wrists, guides his hands up her legs, hiking up the skirt of her dress in the process, “and I wouldn’t like this.”

She kisses him deeply, both of her small hands coming up his neck, thumbs brushing his stubble briefly before her fingers trace the edge of his ears. “I don’t care that your ears are small and round and that you don’t believe the same things I do. I really like you, Cullen, in fact I adore you, though I’m sure you knew that already.”

“I never tire of hearing it.” Truly, he doesn’t.

“I also don’t care that you’re hairy. It’s quite fascinating, actually,” she adds, smirking as he snorts. “You’re sweet to me, and you treat me well, which is more than I can say for quite a few people in my own clan. You’re caring and honest, and you don’t even look down at me when you’re literally looking down at me. I just...”

“Just...?”

“Never mind.”

“What is it?” he raises a brow, removing his hands from her legs to rub her arms. “You can tell me anything.”

She furrows her brows, quite thoughtful as his thumbs brush circles on her arms. “Can I get back to you? I can’t... I can’t quite put it into words. It’s nothing bad, I swear, it’s just... Hm.”

“You seem perplexed by this,” he comments lightly.

“I am,” she murmurs, biting her lip. “Maybe I need to sleep on it.”

“Then shall we go to bed?”

She smiles, her slight frown disappearing. “We shall.”


	53. I need to tell you something

She likes him a lot more than she thought she did, and she knew she liked him a lot to begin with.

There was always something about him that she felt could be so... engaging. And so she had to – engage him, of course – in any capacity to see that light he could put out, all work and no play. The slightest of grins or smirks, that snark, lop-sided smiles and laughs, breathy and low, seemingly surprising himself as he finds something humorous and enjoyable in even the most mundane things. She strove to get him to let his guard down and just _be_ – to be happy, and enjoy the world and all the little wonders in it as she does, even as it falls apart around him. He need not carry it all, as well as all the time. That, and she wanted to see.

She finds him to be incredibly beautiful, and in various ways.

She also has the privilege of being close to him, of being trusted, and of being someone he might call his friend. He lets her in, he laughs with her, lets his guard down and his shoulders slack because he’s tired, and though he won’t show it in front of the soldiers, he will with her. She won’t tell, after all.

Creators, how did she find him?

“You’re awfully happy this morning,” he notes, playing with her hair as he enjoys, herself fiddling with his free hand as she likes as well.

“Excuse you, I’m almost always happy,” she responds, but realizes that she must be rather obvious for him to pick it up. “And I have you here, first thing. My mornings are perfect.” _Because you’re perfect._

“Did sleeping on things help?” he questions, shifting a little lower on the bed so they might be at eye level. Damn, she must’ve been terribly obvious the night before for him to ask.

“Oh, uh... yes,” she nods, averting her gaze for a moment too long. He raises a brow before she continues. “I just realized that I–” _Why is this hard?_ “–that I, uh...”

“That you...?” he echoes, pressing, but his voice is gentle and patient. Curious if anything. It must be strange for him, hearing her struggle with her words. It’s odd for her as well.

 _That I adore you – I adore everything about you from your laugh to the way you rest your hand on the pommel of your sword or rub the back of your neck_ , her mind shouts.

She adores that he takes a longer stride to open doors for her, and that he actually braids her hair because he knows that she likes it. She adores the way he’ll sometimes stand behind her and just rest his chin on top of her head, chest against her back and arms around her waist, not too tight, or how he picks her up and just carries her places, spinning them both around because she thinks it’s fun. She adores the way he looks at her – into her eyes, searching, warm, affectionate, and kind. He wants to be with her, his eyes tell her, not just physically because he hasn’t tried anything at all yet, but _all of her_. His eyes say he wants to talk to her, engage her, beat her at chess, lose to anything that involves accuracy. He wants to eat late with her, talk with her, or not talk with her and just be with her in silence and shower her with affection by his lips or just the slightest touch, because the company is what he wants, and it’s what she’ll give.

And goodness, when he kisses the palm of her hand and each digit, she might just melt.

She doesn’t just like him anymore. She’s not even sure she just adores him either. She didn’t give it much thought, too busy smiling and feeling her heart pound in her chest when she’s with him, each moment sweeping her away into some ridiculous bliss she can’t quite explain.

No, it wasn’t until yesterday when she was putting it into words that she realized that he’s... that he’s very important to her. That she doesn’t just like him or find him interesting and fun like when they were becoming friends, or that she just adores him because he’s sweet, kind, and good to her. This is different. She’s liked other people before, countless people, and she’s adored almost just as many.

She sighs, running a hand through her hair. _Simplify_ , she tells herself. _Say something – anything_. “That I really, really, really, really, really, really like you.”

“Oh, _really?_ ” he snickers.

“Don’t laugh!” she pouts, pulling her pillow from under her and hitting him with it gently, because she can’t think of any other way to express precisely what she feels, and if it’s written all over her face then she needs to get it out somewhere before she _bursts_. “But I do. Really.”

He can barely contain himself when the word leaves her lips again. She sighs, defeated, but smiles all the same – Creators, how he _laughs_. She could listen to it forever, and that’s just it.

She’s been with other people before – a lot of other people. It’s something that drove her clan absolutely crazy to the point where they would actually pack up and move because she was just all over that dwarven merchant who just came to the surface, the sweet elven tavern girl with sparkling green eyes, and the farm boy. Not all at once, but she would’ve if she could.

In her defense, however: if Cullen thinks she has good hands, then he obviously hasn’t had the pleasure of dwarven company.

And she’s never really been one to follow rules.

But she knew those wouldn’t last. It wasn’t just because of her clan, but because there was a mutual understanding that what she had with each of them – and the others in between – was casual, fun, and light. They were momentary – fleeting little trysts that both parties could look back on fondly. She still does. Well, except the farm boy. That was something entirely of its own. But she was fourteen, then. Almost everyone makes the mistake of thinking they’ve found love that young.

She knows that the Inquisition won’t last forever either. In fact her original plan was to pick up her brother and just travel to Antiva like he’s always wanted after everything’s finished, assuming she survives. It’d probably be easier given her newfound resources. She could probably hold onto one favour for him.

That’s still part of her plan, her brother means the world to her, but... is there room for one more?

She could do _this_ , waking up next to Cullen, have him play with her hair, laugh, smile, and kiss, endlessly. She thinks about him when she’s away from Skyhold, misses him, even pines a little. She doesn’t _pine_. She wants to spend her days with him because he’s just so damn wonderful, and she doesn’t want any of it to stop. When the Inquisition is done, whenever that is, she doesn’t want this to end with it.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, finally settling before pressing his lips to hers. She can feel him smile which only prompts her to do the same – he’s happy. She makes him happy, and he enjoys being with her. She wonders if he knows just how ridiculously happy he makes her.

“Apology accepted,” she grins, bumps the tip of her nose against his lightly.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, thumb brushing her cheek before he quickly pecks the scar on her own lips. She giggles, nodding.

“Perfectly, thank you for asking. Did you?”

“Fairly. We should probably get ready for the day. You have a breakfast with someone, if I recall,” he murmurs, eyes on her lips as he remains in bed, a hand coming up her arm, she notes.

“I do, and we _should_ ,” she agrees, “buuuut our morning routine consists of something else before we get out of bed. I’m still a little worn from my trip and my mandatory dinner deal, so I can’t quite place what it is.”

“No?” he scoffs, smirking.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” she sighs dramatically. “Care to refresh my memory, Commander?”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

He weaves his fingers through her hair, finding her face and cupping it before leaning forward himself, pressing his lips to hers with the utmost tenderness, something she quite delights in. He’s so breathtakingly _gentle_.

She bites, well it’s more like a ghost of a bite, really, his lower lip as he lets out a single laugh – breathy and inviting. She takes her cue as he parts his lips, her tongue moving past as his meets hers half way, caressing, playful.

Mhm, so he’s a fairly quick study. Interesting.

His hand, one of those wonderfully rough, big, human hands — oh, she can head her clan screaming at her for thinking so, not that she cares — slides from her hair down her neck, and settle by her shoulder, rubbing circles against her tunic as her own little bandaged fingers ghostly dance along the stubble on his neck. It's so fascinating, facial hair. It tickles, too, and for a moment as she catches his upper lip between hers, she wonders what he might look like with a beard. Like a big, dwarven beard. Or something like Blackwall's. She very much likes how he has it now, though.

Their lips part with reluctance after some time, both of them stealing whatever kiss they can between breaths, not wanting to pause for a second, one of her hands in his hair while the other and its fingers leave the blond hairs along his jaw and neck and trace his collarbone instead. _How are you even real?_ His arms come around and under her back and legs, pulling her into his lap as he sits up, insistent though breathless and light little kisses trailing up her neck and to her ear in the process.

She gasps, however, hissing at the pain when his hand grips her hip.

“What’s wrong? Are you all right? Did I hurt you?” he asks, a sudden panic in his voice. She’s about to respond when he removes his hands from their place immediately, lifting her shirt and inspecting, her bruises in full view. “What happened?”

“A defender charged at me,” she responds lightly as he pulls her shirt up farther, eyes following the black and blue, obviously having the time to gain their colour. She’s not quite certain if she should say something in regards to his hands, mostly because she doesn’t mind; boundaries and personal space aren’t her thing most days of the week. They’ve also been going to bed together after only four and a half months, she’s pressed her body against his countless times, and also because, well, he’ll catch on quickly. He always does.

“M-maker, I’m sorry!” he jumps, eyes wide. He removes his hands from her immediately, seemingly leaning back as to not touch her, despite the fact that she’s sitting in his lap, legs around him, the fabric of her tunic falling down to cover the rest of her once more.

“It’s okay, Cullen,” she assures him, mildly amused. “I’m okay, and you’re fine.”

“Are you certain?” he questions. “I don’t– I-I didn’t mean to, uh...”

She giggles at his manners, leans forward to press a brief kiss to his lips, brushing her nose against his before backing up. She rolls her shirt up under her chest, turning to the right slightly so he might inspect what he’s touched. She knows he’ll want to actually look at it, that worry in those darling brown eyes.

And quite frankly it’s incredibly sexy when he hovers.

“It’s just a bruise. A big one, but still a bruise. I’m okay,” she repeats, “and so are you.”

His eyes scan her hip, skin turning a green-ish yellow extending up and across her torso. He takes her hand, fingers brushing her worn and battered knuckles (no way she wasn’t going to hit back), likely to avoid looking like his eyes want to go elsewhere. She smiles at this – he’s always been very polite. It’s one of her favourite things about him. She wouldn't mind if he did take a look around, though. Especially with his hands.

“Cullen?”

“Yes?”

“Is something wrong?”

He lets out a breathy, awkward, embarrassed, dry laugh. “Um...”

“Don’t like what you see?” she jokes.

“W-what? No! I mean, y-yes, very much,” he stammers, barely managing to get the words out, a smile growing on her lips as she rubs his arms to comfort. “I like you very much, y-you’re very lovely. I-in more ways than one.”

“Why thank you, Commander,” she says, tilts her head to the side with a smile, watching as he lets out a shaky breath. “But we’re not doing anything wrong, if there is a wrong.”

“I-it’s just that – that this is the first relationship I’ve been in... well,” he continues, ears and cheeks red, eyes downcast as he frowns momentarily. It's infectious, as she doesn’t want to make him upset, feeling her easy smile losing out to her own frown a little, “my first... real one, I suppose, a-and I don’t want to risk or ruin anything by moving too quickly.”

 _Ah_. That explains before.

Not that it’s really stopped them thus far, but she understands perfectly. It is, after all, her first real relationship as well. Her longest prior was precisely two weeks and five days – Alexander, the farm boy, excluding the three months prior of continuous flirting every moment they met, which wasn't enough to actually fill three whole months. She was fourteen. It hardly counts.

“Are you... disappointed?” he asks quietly after a pause.

“Not in the least,” she beams, taking his hand in hers, and pressing her lips to the back. If anything, it’s equal parts terrifying and exciting – she doesn’t know what in the world she’s doing, only that she likes the way it feels very much, and she’s being extra careful as to not screw a single thing up. Well, she has a general idea of what a relationship is _supposed_ to be, but really? Rules? Guidelines? Her? _Pfff._ Yeah, right. “You haven’t tried to have sex with me yet. I quite like that – it’s a first.”

His face, however possible, becomes more flustered. “I-I, uh...”

“It means you like me,” she murmurs, ghostly pressing her lips to his, leaving her place in his lap, and moving to her dresser. She has a breakfast business-date she shouldn’t be late for, even if it is him without a shirt on in her bed. If she’s lucky she can throw something together before Anna inevitably walks in on them doing something that looks far more inappropriate than it actually is, creating new stories about their non-existent sex life. She should also learn how to navigate Orlesian fashion trends on her own. “As in _like_ -like me. You really, really _like_ -like me.”

She wiggles her eyebrows mock-suggestively as one of his hands comes up to cover his mouth as he laughs, seemingly less flustered, something she aims for – she never wants him to be that uncomfortable for very long. She vaguely remembers what that feels like, and it wasn’t fun.

And though the statement is teasing, she means it – it makes her incredibly happy that he likes _her_ , and not just her legs, because she knows she has nice ones, and that he’s rather fond of them. She’s not some elven harlot again – easy, like a cheap meal, a wild, exotic animal, and something to be had, not even worth being a some _one_. She’s some nothing as so many of their noble guests tell her with their eyes, even as they bow and refer to her as _your Worship_.

She doesn’t need the validation, of course, they’re not very fascinating and thus not worth much to her, she has their secrets and they really shouldn’t overlook anyone with pointy ears (there are so very many advantages of not being looked at like a person), but amidst all the sideways looks and sneers behind porcelain masks and fans, it’s nice to be reminded that not everyone thinks so little of her, and not just because they need her to lend a very specific hand. Saying it out loud feels nice because she can, and because it’s true.

“You’re forgetting about five extra ‘ _really_ ’’s,” he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Am I?” she grins, biting her lip. “Re–“

“Don’t say it,” he warns, a smirk on his lip as he slowly climbs out of bed.

“Am I, _really_?” she asks quickly, challenging him. Four left now.

“You’re ridiculous,” he rolls his eyes, tossing the covers aside and moving to pick her up, spinning them around once she’s in his arms, tossing her back to bed, climbing over her.

“You enjoy it,” she counters, absolutely amused. He narrows his eyes despite the twitch of his lips, a teasing little smile just waiting. “You _really_ –“

“Don’t!”

“Really, real–“ she insists, raising her voice, laughing as he presses his lips to hers. She hums, positively delighted by his touch – soft, earnest, and amorous while his hands find their way to hers, locking their fingers together.

“I don’t _like_ -like you, Maker’s breath...” he murmurs, lips travelling past her chin and down her neck. “I adore you.”

“Oh,” she breathes, eyes fluttering shut as he nips. She bites as well – her own lip, curling her toes as he moves up to her ear which twitches as the tip of his nose brushes the lobe. “Well, I could get used to hearing that.”

“Can you, now?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I’ll start... immediately,” he mumbles by her ear, separating his words with kisses lining her jaw and finding her lips once more. “I adore you... I adore you... I adore you... I adore you...”

“And _I_ adore _you_ ,” she giggles, cutting in.

“That’s my line,” he protests.

“Technically it’s mine. I started it.”

“And I never do tire of hearing it.”

“Neither do I, as of today.”

“Then shall I continue?”

“By all means.”

Her mornings really are perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, she's fun to write & now requires her own thingamajig.


	54. Take my hand & take me dancing

He recognizes her little musical knock the moment she starts, and rushes to open his office door for her before she can finish.

“There you are!”

She giggles, hand still held up and ready to finish her little tune, opting instead to tap the rest of it on his breastplate with a finger.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“Yes. I mean no.” _Oh,_ _nicely done_.

“I can come back later, if you’d prefer,” she offers, ever sweetly. She probably thinks he was expecting someone else and that, as it should be: work comes first.

“No. Please stay,” he manages, and takes a deep breath. “We have some dealings in Ferelden. I was hoping you might accompany me. When you can spare the time, of course.”

Her eyebrows rise and eyes widen. “Is something wrong?”

“What? No,” he stumbles. Maker’s breath. “I-I-I would rather explain there. If you wish to go.”

“I believe there’s time now,” she responds in her best pseudo-professional-Inquisitor-business-voice (because she has one, and she refers to it as such). The little grin she bites down on, slightest flit of her ears, leaving one pointed just slightly higher up than the other, and of course, the way her eyes just light up as she looks at him say otherwise. She’s just trying to be cute. It’s absolutely working.

“I will make the necessary arrangements,” he smiles. In actuality, he already made the necessary arrangements, the only thing left was to find the time to ask her, and see if she could. He steps back into his office, Inquisitor following before he opens his side door, telling one of the guards to ready some horses.

She knows this isn’t a business trip. Or even if she didn’t, she’d enjoy being somewhere with him anyway; he can feel it in the way she quietly slips her fingers between his as he leads the way out the side door, and down the stairs, straight for the bridge.

For the most part, Cullen is able to ignore most eyes who find their relationship a fun conversation topic. She had planned on letting go the moment they stepped out the door, but he held on – liked the fit too much to let go, and it wasn’t like everyone didn’t already know.

And they were going to run off together, so to speak. Not much point in hiding it now.

They make their way to the bridge in silence where Cullen sends a messenger to Leliana’s tower for a bird to tell the soldiers already stationed in Ferelden that he’ll be arriving soon, as well as Leliana of the departure, Inquisitor accompanying. He can already hear her cooing at him for it.

He need not do so, but he offers her a hand to help her with her horse after giving her an extra coat, just in case. Once she and Ser Bobbert of the Mire are comfortable, she bows her head respectfully, offering a light thank you that, for anyone else, would be lost amidst the mountain winds, but it wasn’t for them – it was for him, and for whatever reason Cullen finds himself blushing as he mounts his own horse.

They ride together across the bridge in comfortable silence, well, for a bit, before he steals a glance, and finds her smiling so very easily, eyes ahead.

“You’re smiling.”

“Would you rather I frown?” she winks. “Or perhaps make silly faces at you every time you’re not looking?”

“If you’d like,” he chuckles, knowing she probably would later. “It’s just... there’s something different about this one.”

“Oh? You’ll have to explain it to me. I don’t have a mirror handy.”

“I’m not certain, it’s just...” he murmurs, watching her intently as she does not falter under his gaze. If anything, her smile widens, and it’s the combination of that easy smile, likely a just as easy and soft laugh bubbling under the surface the next time he says something a little too forward, earnest, or candid, maybe stumbling. She won’t laugh at him, however, it’s just... it’s just there. It’s part of it. That smile – a smile of amazement, of wonder, she peers at him curiously, watches with interest as he wishes she wouldn’t but all the while hoping she never looks away. Her laugh will come out gently, quietly even, as she bites her lip and just beams at him because she likes him, _actually likes him_ and wants to go somewhere unknown with him because she trusts him and enjoys every little thing about him because he knows; he can see her eyes as she watches him quietly, every morning as she observes their hands, every night when they talk each other to sleep about something, every stolen glance across the war table or Skyhold, every late night work date where he’s tired but she won’t overtly say anything but instead find an opening in their conversation to maybe sort of nudge him to get some rest, and he will, so long as she’s there because Maker, “it’s perfect.”

“Oh,” she breathes, blushes, ears flitting as she averts her gaze for a moment. “Um, thank you, Cullen.”

“Maker, I’m sorry that was – you... you’ve probably heard that countless times it was... Maker’s breath,” he sighs, turning to stare at the mountains, at the guards at the gate as they go to open it – anything but her. He meant to tease a little, say it was very becoming or something simple. Perfect? _Really?_ Maker’s breath.

Well, _it is_ , but there are other ways to say it without being so... mortifying. Like he’s trying too hard to be overly romantic. Andraste’s sword, what if the entire trip is too much?

“Cullen,” she calls, and as he turns to face her she’s already there, Ser Bobbert closer than he’d like, but so is she, which is much more comforting. One hand comes up to brush his cheek with a finger while the other, and it takes him a surprising amount of effort to tear his gaze from hers, is up in the air and twirling a finger in a circle, motioning for the guards at the gate to turn around. They do, grinning of course.

She presses a dainty little kiss to his lips, all smiles, that perfect smile as it is, and he exhales, very thankful she doesn’t tease him for being a little excessive in his word choice.

“Thank you,” she repeats.

“For what?”

“You’re not wrong – I have heard that before,” she continues, quiet little chuckle following as both them and their horses moving past the gate as she whispers a quick thanks ever charmingly to both guards who smirk in response (at least before Cullen raises a brow at the one closest to him). “But this time I know the person telling me means it.”

He clears his throat. He does mean it.

“Uh, good.”

“Good,” she says, matching him. She straightens her back, devilish little grin plastered on her face. “I’ll race you.”

“You don’t even know where we’re going,” he raises a brow, “and I’m not telling you. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“You said Ferelden. Good enough for me,” she shrugs. “Afraid you’ll lose, Commander?”

“Well, what would I get if I won?” he counters, thankful for the change in subject.

“Anything I could possibly give you.”

“I already have several favours you owe me,” he reminds. “I don’t think you want to hand me more.”

“Why, Commander, are you that certain you’ll even win?” she jabs. “And quite the contrary: I like giving you I-owe-you’s. You never use them.”

“What would I even use them for?” he asks. In truth, he’s quite certain he could ask her for anything at any given time without a favour hanging over her head and she’d give it to him.

“Food favours,” she responds immediately. She brings herself and Ser Bobbert closer, and in a lower, sinfully captivating voice, “Anything. Everything.”

Her nose brushes his briefly as she smiles, eyes on his lips before glancing up to meet his gaze for the shortest of moments. She winks, bites her lip, and rides ahead.

It takes Cullen a moment to recall one I-owe-you during her game, sometime after Bull had thrown her into scaffolding.

 _Anything_. Whenever he wanted as well, he recalls.

He catches up to her in a moment, moving his horse closer to Ser Bobbert.

“If I’d... if I’d kissed you the day Bull threw you into some scaffolding, what would have happened?”

“Probably would’ve saved you a few extra rounds,” she giggles. “Ready set go!”

She rushes ahead, and Cullen chases after, adamant on winning.


	55. Downtime

“Best five out of seven. You’re letting me win, Commander,” she eyes him, their hands locked together in a thumb war he ‘ _lost_.’ Because he would never let her win, just as how she’d never let him win a race so he could kiss her without end in some random barn for twenty minutes before a farmer walks in on them to find nothing, Lav taking them both into stealth before they sneak out, stifling their laughter and setting up camp just a few more hours from their destination because he knows she likes sleeping under the stars.

And because she quite likes cuddling and kissing under them, too.

“Inquisitor, I would never,” he smirks. Because he wouldn’t. Especially if it meant she’d make that face at him – eyebrows furrowed, lips pouty yet fighting one dangerously, yes _dangerously_ precious smile, fingers running through his hair while the other is preoccupied with one of his. And because she doesn’t adore his half smiles and smirks (as she most certainly never said so, bringing a blush to his cheeks and heat to his ears). Also because it wouldn’t just take him one nose brush to disarm that look and have her lips on his in an instant, gentle and warm, body pressed against his, one leg or both wrapped around his waist before he pushes her onto her back, climbing over her. Nope. He would never.

Yes, he absolutely would.

They’ve spent the last eighteen hours together, completely uninterrupted (and no, he did not count, it’s just a precise guess). The other six were spent eating and going to the Crossroads in the Hinterlands to manage a few issues on where to have a presence, dealing with smugglers, bandits, and protecting refugees, plus travel time from the inn where they’re staying.

Honestly they could’ve simply camped under the stars again, she’s quite used bedrolls, but then their soldiers would insist on having at least two of them there just in case (or Leliana would insist because Baron Plucky is evil and the fastest of her birds, and she’d like to have something to tease him about upon their return), and the whole point was to take her away from her job, if only for a little while.

Now they have walls and forty-five minutes to an hour between soldiers and messengers coming once a day, maybe twice, but always in the afternoon, which is nicely predictable. Unless it’s Baron Plucky. Sure, there’s an older couple next door that judges them both relentlessly for their very not-meant-to-be-public public displays of affection every time they cross paths, but other than that...

He drags his lips down her neck, making sure to brush his stubble against her skin along the way, tickling her and pulling her into fits of giggles she tries so very hard to fight, squeaking, gasping for air, running her fingers through his hair, holding him close, and just glowing with the utmost joy before she wriggles from his grasp, hands coming down to cup his face and tilt his chin up, pressing her lips to his gently with a smile before pulling back.

“Careful, Commander. There are other people at this inn. You don’t want them to come over here and yell at us for being noisy, do you?”

“Can I help it if you can’t be tickled quietly?”

“Oh-ho,” she laughs, raising a brow at his sudden boldness. Nevertheless, she leans in to press her lips to the lower of his, the promise of more with the faintest touch of her tongue after, followed by a dainty little kiss to his nose which he can’t not smile at. “And whose fault is that?”

“Well I thought you were the fun one,” he teases, though finds himself leaning in after her as she pulls away, wanting more. Maker, how can she do that so easily?

“Oh, I am,” she scoffs, “but you should know by now that things are only fun if you don’t get caught.”

“True,” he hums, but there’s something that’s so delectable about the way she sighs, gasps, and moans whenever he does something she likes, probably because she bites her lip to keep quiet, but if he can draw them out of her then that means he’s doing a very good job of pleasing her, and he’d hate to underperform for his Inquisitor.

Still... the things they could do with their mouths is far more quiet, and they could get away with more if they were just so.

Plus he quite delights in the way she literally takes his breath away.

“Could we compromise?”

“You’re asking if we can be noisy and quiet?”

“Well I’m asking you if you think you can squeal more quietly, because I’d like nothing more than to make you do so,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Quit rubbing your stubble along my neck and you have a deal.”

“But you seem to enjoy it,” he protests.

“I do...” she sighs, scrunching her nose before he leans forward, brushing the tip of his across hers. “Gah, you know I’m partial to nose touching.”

He takes that as a sign of victory before she returns it, the tip of her nose coming up to touch his, lips catching the upper of his as she sucks ever so slightly, pulling away the moment he starts to give back.

“You’re torturing me,” he murmurs.

“You tickle me.”

“That’s not the same.”

“I don’t grow facial hair. I can’t do that to you, just so you know,” she responds quite pointedly, but the smile on her lips teases him.

“Then I owe you for such an offense. What would you have of me?”

She giggles at his seriousness. “Well, now that you mention it...”


	56. I need not one thing more

He always thought that there was something about her, and as they grew closer he thought he was starting to understand. Her lightness, her humour, he ability to lead, her playfulness, her sweetness, the way she smiles, her easy laugh, and the way she looks at people and makes them feel like they are priceless and beautiful.

The way she stays in bed with him, his head in her lap as her fingers rub his temples for however long because it’s one of those days where a headache isn’t a minor headache but more like the weight of an entire fortress trying to crush his head from the inside, and that he can only make out half of her sentences because his ears are shot, and there’s that ringing going on again and _it’s so damn loud_.

He doesn’t know precisely how long they stay like that. When he opens his eyes, hers are scanning his face, his arms, his torso, his muscles, joints, _everything_ , probably to make sure he’s okay. The sun is high enough in the sky that he knows it’s well past noon. Maker, they’ve been in bed all morning doing nothing.

He feels awful. After all, the point of the trip was to let her have her fun and just relax, not tend to his every need.

“How can you be so good to me?” he murmurs, focusing on his breathing as her fingers continue to work the pains they can touch from him. The ringing has quieted down, and he can hear his own words with much more clarity, and likely the other half of her sentences.

“Have you done something I should be mad about that I haven’t picked up yet?” she raises a brow, grinning. His hand comes up to take one of hers, bringing her fingers to his lips before he kisses every digit, glancing at her to see that smile.

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me like this.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“Because it shouldn’t always be about me and my health,” he sighs, a hand coming up to cup her cheek. She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at him before turning to press her lips to the palm of his hand, one of hers coming up to lace her fingers between his.

“I disagree.”

“Because?”

“Because if I’m going to be with someone I want to be certain they’re happy, comfortable, and healthy. If I made them feel any less then I probably shouldn’t be with them,” she shrugs as though it were obvious. “You don’t actually think I drag you off to eat every night with me because I’m bored, do you?”

“I always thought it was because you were hungry and wanted the company.”

“True, and half true.”

“Half true?”

“I wanted _your_ company,” she grins, “and I wanted to make sure you were taking care of yourself.”

“Is that why you have a pack of herbs ready to mix for me?” he raises a brow.

“Not really,” she muses. “I always keep a pack on Ser Bobbert’s saddle. He’s too terrifying for people to try and steal them, and in case my team and I need to make a quick getaway from a tough fight, we’ve got something to tend to our wounds, and other assorted pains.”

“Clever.”

“Thank you,” she says, leaning down to press her lips to his forehead. “And thank you again.”

“For?”

“You said that things between us shouldn’t always be about you and your health – they’re not, despite being important to me. It’s usually about our jobs, but we have fun when we can, and where are we exactly?”

“Ferelden,” he responds in broad, not wanting to give her any details in case she may have come across the area in her travels. Based on her reports and annotations, however, she hasn’t.

“And not Skyhold. Where Anna or someone else might walk in on us, or you’d be in your office, fully clad in armor barking orders and fighting a headache while I get dragged off to do something. We’d have to steal whatever moment we could get together, and I wouldn’t be able to get reasonable amounts of sleep next to one of my favourite people.”

“Dorian doesn’t take you out?” he teases.

“I’m usually the one taking point on every outing, and getting shot at or being chased first,” she laughs lightly. “No one’s ever done something like this for me before.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Oh? Any particular reason why?”

“Because you’re you,” he responds easily. “I can’t imagine anyone wouldn’t want to do anything they could to make you smile.”

She laughs – quiet and bashful as she averts her gaze.

“You know when you’re not stammering, Commander, you have quite the way with words.”

“It’s true.”

“I never said I doubted you,” she smiles, which only makes him smirk triumphantly. She bats her lashes, eyes looking elsewhere for a moment. “Um, how are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Then shall I request a meal be brought up here for you, or would you like to go down to eat?”

“Could we actually just, uh...” he starts. He doesn’t want to impose, after all, even if she already said she doesn’t mind.

“Just what?”

“Stay... here. A bit longer.”

“Too comfortable, are we?” she teases. He inches up to brush his nose across hers, earning yet another smile.

“Very.”


	57. Kiss me down by the broken treehouse

So they do actually leave their room. Honest.

And, well... they’re having a picnic.

It’s odd to him, Inquisitor and Commander of a military organization out and about while the world crumbles around them, having lunch on a beautiful, sunny day in Ferelden, but here they are, moving onto fruits as she tosses grapes into the air and catches them with her mouth. That mouth. Her very versatile mouth. One that has a little scar of its own, dragged across the corner of her upper right lip and trailing down onto the lower one as well. He wonders who put it there, why, as well as how. He also can’t stop staring at them because he wants to do something else with them. With his mouth. And his tongue.

Cullen cannot explain this urge. Well, that’s half true, he can very much explain why, in fact the same urge occurs at Skyhold, their very not-picnic-appropriate fortress where they do their very not-so-ordinary jobs. But... there’s just something about spending a whole day with her, knowing that this time away won’t last forever has him wanting to do everything with her while they still have the time. After all, what if Skyhold does actually fall apart without them?

No, Leliana and Josephine, as well as Cassandra are more than capable. It’s his and Lav’s specific areas of work that concern him. More so his, as he and her two other advisors have their jobs so she might go out and deal with the rifts.

“You’re gazing romantically at me,” she calls out, smirking when he quirks a brow.

“That’s certainly one way of putting ‘staring’, I suppose,” he chuckles.

“Well I was going to say ‘staring’, but it sounds much less polite,” she winks, “and romantic.”

“A fair point.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“Hm?”

“For staring.”

“Oh...” he murmurs, averting his gaze for a moment before she leans in, brushes her nose against his, and then her lips on his as well. “Uh, that. I just didn’t want to be so... forward.”

After all he did take her out here for her benefit, not for his.

“You don’t have to be _that_ polite, Cullen,” she giggles. “We’re not at Skyhold. No one who knows us is gonna find us all over each other. For all anyone here knows we’re just two people.”

“A fair point. Still.”

“Are you under some impression that I don’t like it when you’re all over me?” she grins. “Because, and so we’re perfectly clear: I rather do.”

“Is that so?”

“Quite so.”

He scoffs, a grin teasing his lips as he’s ready to pick her up and pull her into his lap when that pair, the couple not much older than themselves walks by on the trail, whispering something after glancing at them with little to no discretion.

He isn’t ashamed to be with her, but he hates how on display they are in the open space. Ironic, given that they walk the battlements and can’t keep their hands off each other there – guards, merchants, and other agents of the Inquisition (and worst of all: Leliana) all able to see them. He can’t explain it, but Cullen isn’t quite ready to invite other people into their relationship, even if so many know. He would prefer it if their private affairs would remain as such, because despite all the interruptions and prying eyes, much of their relationship is theirs only – he likes just being with her and her alone when it’s about them.

No one also quite knows what they do behind closed doors. Their guesses are actually quite far off, but he’s not about to go and correct them, even though he would prefer if the soldiers would stop indiscreetly speculating aloud whether he tops or bottoms when he’s nearby. Maker’s breath.

“I’m sorry, they just...”

“They’re awfully judgmental,” she says for him. “I mean, it’s not like we make that much noise next door. Sheesh.”

He snorts. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“I think I’m going to howl at the moon tonight, just to be cute,” she grins, wiggling her eyebrows and her ears. “Right by the window. Maybe my howling’ll draw in some dogs and we’ll all just howl together and keep them up all night long.”

“Please don’t,” he shakes his head, smiling.

“You spoil my fun.”

“I’m asking you not to.”

“You ask knowing that I’ll acquiesce because you know I adore you,” she responds, “and that I’ll want you to get a decent amount of sleep.”

“How thoughtful of you,” he jokes, bringing a strawberry to his lips. As he opens his mouth to take a bite, however, she beats him to it, smirking as he all but gawks at her, offended. “I was going to eat that.”

“I didn’t eat all of it,” she shrugs a shoulder innocently. He pops the bitten strawberry in his mouth, not breaking eye contact until he realizes he’d just eaten something she took a bite from. It’s not the first time it’s happened; some time ago she took a bite from an apple he was going to eat before they shot an arrow through it together.

“Here,” she offers as an apology, holding another a few inches from his lips.

He’s reluctant at first, but he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable, or make her hold her hand up for long and so he bites – quickly, and quite a bit too. His lips touch her fingers and he can feel a bit of the juices drip down them as he pulls back. She giggles.

“What?”

“Nothing, that just tickled a little,” she answers, dropping whatever’s left of the fruit into her mouth before licking her fingers clean. Cullen can’t not stare at the sight of her sucking on her fingers.

“Could you hand me another strawberry, please?” she asks in that damn silky voice, the one she uses when she wants or is up to something, both of which are often.

He holds one out to her, pulling it back before she can take a bite, much to her chagrin. He recalls the grape bet – long before they were together where she said she’d convince him to feed her one, and even though they’re much past that, he can’t help but want to get back at her for it. Their eyes meeting briefly and he smirks, and she scoffs, rolling her eyes at him. He offers it again, and she takes a partial bite like he did, juices dripping onto his fingers. It’s her turn to be smug, grinning mischievously as she nabs the rest in her mouth, tongue touching the ends of his digits in the process before she kisses them, gently sucking what the strawberries had left.

He exhales, not surprised she’d do so, but still quite caught off guard. _Of course she would_ , part of him says, and yet another just... Maker’s breath.

“You’re not very shy about what you want, are you?” he murmurs, watching as she presses her lips to the palm of his hand, his thumb brushing her cheek. She smiles, shaking her head.

“Not at all. Why, would you rather I were?”

“Not a chance,” he chuckles. After all, someone had to take initiative, and it wouldn’t have been him. He’s not ashamed to admit that courting is not within his area of expertise. “But would that even matter?”

“Nope, but it’s nice to hear that you like how I do things,” she smiles.

“I’d still be dreaming about you if you didn’t...” he mumbles. He still does, but they’re not hopeless little fancies anymore. She doesn’t need to know that, though.

Or maybe he should tell her, because she quite likes making all of his dreams about her come true.

She hums. “Well I did say I had two things I could charm you into doing for me.”

“The grape,” he recalls. “Wait, two?”

“I had two things. One was the grape,” she smirks.

“The other...” he murmurs, recalling that she said it would require more time, was top secret, and _,_ “... I’ll know it when I see it. Were you planning on seducing me from the start?”

“I was planning on getting you to push for the things you want,” she corrects. “Or did you forget the time you almost kissed me one rainy day?”

Cullen can feel his face burning up. “You did say you were frustrated by my lack of initiative.”

“After that I was certain you felt something more, too.”

“Wait, ‘too’?” he asks, backing up to meet her eyes. She says nothing, only grins mischievously sweet, brushing her nose against his and a light kiss to his lips.


	58. Magnetic, everything about you

“When?” he asks. Again.

He _needs_ to know.

“I’m told that a lady never tells. Considering that people actually refer to me as _‘my lady’_ now, I’m honour-bound to not tell. Never, in fact,” she shrugs. “Sorry, Commander. I don’t make the rules.”

“And when have you ever liked a single rule?”

“I happen to like the rule of breaking rules.”

He scoffs, wraps his arms around her waist as she attempts to get an inch closer to the inn. No, he’ll keep her outside with him until the sun sets if he doesn’t find out when she started having feelings for him. It took him a generous amount of time to come to terms with liking her because for some odd reason he couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea, and by the time he’d almost kissed her she’d figured out that he felt something more _as well_ , which means she may or may not have scrambled about with her feelings about them for a time like him, too.

And it took him _a while_.

It’s eating away at him.

He runs a hand through her hair and pushes it up, pressing his lips down and down to the nape of her neck, tugging at her shirt to trail kisses to her shoulder.

“Please?”

“You are not begging,” she protests, eyes ahead and trying her best to ignore him. “You don’t beg. You’re Fereldan, and you’re stubborn.”

“So I’m going to keep asking you,” he murmurs, lips moving back up her shoulder to her neck, then the back of her ear before nipping the edge. She jumps just slightly, a shaky exhale following and he can see the subtle rosiness in her cheeks. She’s blushing, which means she might be on the verge of cracking. He’s never actually succeeded in that. Not quite. “Tell me, and I’ll stop.”

“What makes you think I even want you to stop?” she breathes, turning to face him, her nose brushing his in the process. “Also: you’re horrible.”

“Something I picked up from you,” he grins, “and you enjoy it.”

“True and true,” she nods, but grumbles.

“What?”

“That stupid smile.”

“My stupid smile?”

“No, the frog’s stupid smile,” she rolls her eyes. “Yes, _yours_. Your stupidly cute, boyish smile. I hate it. It’s perfect. It drives me nuts.”

“It drives you nuts?” he echoes, grin growing wider. She groans, squirming from his grasp. He chuckles, brushes the tip of his nose to her ear, watching it twitch, and turn a little red alongside her cheeks.

Evidently it drives her very nuts. Good to know.

“Tell me and I’ll stop,” he says again, right by her ear. She grunts, and Cullen drags his fingers up her torso to tickle her in response.

She borderline shrieks, laughter mixed with horrified pleading for him to stop as he wraps an arm around her, picking her up and spinning her around, her protests shifting into a gentle and slightly breathless laugh before he sets her down. He presses his lips to her hair as she pouts – she’s flustered, her hair’s perfectly all over the place, and she’s utterly embarrassed, trying not to let it show.

He’s never seen anything cuter in his life, truly.

“You’re embarrassed.”

“I know,” she buries her face into his chest. “I’m never embarrassed. _You’re_ always embarrassed. It’s much cuter on you.”

“I disagree – you haven’t seen yourself flustered yet,” he hums. “Is... is it really that embarrassing?”

“For how long I’ve _like_ -liked you?” she asks. He snorts because really, who still says ‘ _like-_ like _’_ anymore?

“Yes.”

“It’s...” she starts, turning her words over before taking a seat on the bench outside the inn. He follows, seats himself on the grass by her legs, wraps an arm around her waist, takes her hand with his free one and brings her knuckles to his lips for a quick kiss. “I dunno, it’s weird? Complicated? Weird-complicated? Excessive? Not enough?”

“Try me.”

“I have. You’re delicious,” she jokes, regaining some of her... well, her muchness.

“Please,” he urges, not nearly as embarrassed about her comment as he could be. She takes a deep breath.

“Promise me you will _not_ laugh,” she says, “and if it’s too much, please pretend that it’s not?”

“It wasn’t love at first sight, was it?” he chuckles. She scoffs, nudging him.

“Nothing that ridiculous,” she says, blushing slightly. “But... maybe sometime after Haven?”

“After Haven?” he repeats, eyes widening.

“Well, I said _maybe_ ,” she adds. “It was just that... I don’t know, there was something there? Not _something_ -something, but, y’know, something. Like we just had an understanding after Haven, or in the chantry even. After that I just had an affinity for your company.”

He nods, not saying more. There was always a sort of click to him, like something suddenly grew, and from that point on they said more than hello to each other in passing outside the war room, or a quick status report – that was when they started spending time together. Standing next to each other wasn’t awkward or as distant, and small talk wasn’t necessary to fill the air because they didn’t have a need for it. Well, at least to Cullen, but now he knows she felt the same as well.

Others were there with them, of course, but it was the two of them who made the decision in the chantry. It wasn’t an easy one, and he didn’t want to be as certain as he was that he would be one of the very last to see her, as well as the one to send her to her death.

“I dunno, it was just comfortable being around you,” she shrugs. “You were there, the avalanche, all that. I never told anyone, but... it was scary. Really scary.”

He takes her other hand with his, bringing her off the bench and down into his lap, back against his chest while he rests his chin on her shoulder. He never heard her say much about any of her experiences.

“I started looking more, after – all the little details,” she says, smiling slightly at this. She glances at him. “Did you know when you smile the right corner of your lip curves first? Just barely, but it does. One time when I said something about riding an aravel down a hill you just... you quirked a brow and had this half smile, and I just... I wanted it again.”

“Was that when...?”

“No,” she chuckles, seemingly more comfortable with the topic. “I don’t know when it happened – it just did. I liked you, I was curious about you, and I wanted to know you, and a little after Haven, after you gave me your word that it wouldn’t happen again I just... wanted to be closer.”

“How much closer?”

“I dunno. How close were we?” she shrugs. “We made excellent work friends and I was quite fond of how that went.”

“You just wanted to be my friend?” he asks with disbelief.

“Well when you say it like that you make friendship sound much less meaningful than it actually is,” she raises a brow. “There are no rules for what friendship is, but we all know it when we have it. We’re still friends now, are we not?”

“I must concede your point,” he says, offering a half smile. She grins as she turns to face him.

“It could be anything, and I just liked being anything with you after a while. It was easy and fun and comfortable – really good to come back to after a long trip, mind you,” she winks. “I don’t really know when it became more, but by the time you almost kissed me there was already something else, and like I said: I liked anything with you.”

“So you never had a point where you knew you were...?”

“No,” she blushes. “I hope that doesn’t sound mean. I liked joking with you – you would not believe how long it took for Cassandra to not _ugh_ at one of my jokes. Leliana doesn’t quite take them, and Josephine gives me a line or two in response and it’s back to work – you actually laugh a little, even if you don’t find them all funny. And when I came back from places I could always just... prattle about it, be excited about what I saw with you and you wouldn’t tell me to focus, cut me off, or roll your eyes.”

“You’re an engaging conversationalist,” he smiles, pressing his lips to her shoulder. He wonders if she’ll ever know how her eyes just light up at retelling something to him.

“It’s not like I didn’t hear the rumour, though. I didn’t think about it or it didn’t sort of cross my mind, but it came up in whispers around me, and I knew it was there.”

“You never entertained the idea?”

“Unless you count me trying to pinpoint who said what and how the story went from a hug to Dorian being an evil magister who seduced me and broke my heart, then no,” she muses. “It’s interesting tracking a rumour. I’m starting to think the maids and servants drop a random one to see how it’ll explode.”

“Badly,” he says flatly.

“Did you entertain the idea when it came up?”

Cullen takes a deep breath. “Honestly, I didn’t. It felt strange to try, but then, uh...”

“I didn’t help, did I?” she giggles. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he breathes. “I didn’t want to, but after it came up in my dreams I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’m certain our soldiers and messengers whispered things when we were together, and just... well, _you_. Even without your title there was always just something about you that was impossible to ignore.”

“Is it my legs?” she wiggles her eyebrows at him. “I’ve been told I have nice ones.”

“You have _very_ nice ones,” he murmurs, hands running down said very nice legs. “I tried not to think about you in such a way, it’s unprofessional after all, but...”

 _The way you walk_ , he thinks. The way she talks, _utterly captivating and infectiously sweet_. The way she sits and listens to him, ponders his words, his thoughts, asks why he thinks that way, why it might help. He knows that she does so for her benefit as well, but having someone truly sit (on his desk) and listen to him at length about something minor and engage him, actively wanting to make his day less strenuous, making his health a priority in their life... it’s hard not to get attached.

And with the amount of whispers about them it was also unbelievably hard to remove the possibility of being even more attached, and wanting more – more affection, more caring, more of those smiles and laughter and just... comfort.

“I still can’t believe this sometimes,” he murmurs.

“No?” she quirks a brow. “Anything in particular?”

“Why anything in particular?” he asks slowly. “What are you planning?”

“If you give me any details of what you can’t believe I’d be more than happy to do whatever it takes so that you do.”

“Whatever it takes?” he repeats. “That’s quite the dedication.”

“I don’t half-ass anything, Commander,” she smirks. “Now what about us is there that you sometimes can’t believe?”


	59. bonne nuit

He likes sleeping with her.

Maker’s breath, no that’s not– that sounds... _ugh_.

He likes going to bed with her in the sense that they will be sharing said bed together. Not doing anything untoward, but still very intimate. And actually sleeping. _There_.

He likes having another person around, but having her around is... it’s _fun_. And he likes nodding off when he can still feel a smile on his lips because she can do that. It’s not just that she provides a contradictory anchor to the present instead of those damn whispers from then, always lurking around in the back of his mind, but he hears _her_ –

“Do you know what’s really nice at the end of a long day of fighting?”

“Food and campfire songs after you’ve roped some of our soldiers into joining?” He got that report from Rylen. She also told him about when she got back from the Approach.

“That’s _after_ after the fight,” she corrects. “Nugs.”

–loud and clear.

Cullen snorts. He can also hear himself laugh loud and clear. He also sees her grin, small and precious because she’s smiling at his laughter, or wide and mischievous, because she has another ridiculous tale to tell and it’s _true_.

“Did I tell you about the Crestwood rift?”

“I read the report about it being under the lake, and something about dwarven ruins still being intact.”

“Did I tell you about the nugs?” she asks. He shakes his head, pulling his coat off and tossing it onto the chair before plopping onto their bed, tugging at his boots and kicking them off. She follows, coat by his and taking a seat next to him before removing her boots with one hand, the other running through her hair. “After a few waves of demons, Varric, Dorian, Cassandra and I go looking for a way out. Once we find this draft, we open this door, and there are these nugs running around in the water, making their nug sounds.”

“Nug sounds?”

“Nug sounds,” she nods, attempting to make them herself, lips vibrating against one another as she sort of... whistles? He snickers, hands coming up to tickle her once more before she falls back onto the bed, begging him to stop, all the while fighting her uncontrollable laughter and occasional squeaking. He pulls her on top of him, both of them lean in to brush noses, something she giggles at before he does so for them. “It was just nice. They’re so small and innocent, running around. And the demons or undead couldn’t reach them.”

“You like nugs, I take it.”

“They’re so cute!” she gushes. “The ones in the Emerald Graves are brown. Like chocolate.”

“Chocolate?”

“Chocolate nugs,” she grins. “Cassandra hates it when I call them that.”

“I’m assuming you would just talk about them on end, then,” he quirks a brow. She nods, biting her lip as she smiles and Maker, he can’t not inch forward to kiss her, rolling them over so he doesn’t have to crane his neck to reach her. She doesn’t mind – she never minds, giggling as he does so.

He lowers himself, lets his chest rest against hers while still holding his weight up with his arms. She smiles, eyes scanning his face even though she’s done so countless times over and over, a finger ghostly running across his stubble, scar, lower lip, and she inches forward to kiss him lightly, slowly trailing a few more past his chin and down his neck, pausing, then glances up at him with a smirk.

He figures she’d nip and suck – leave little marks because they can this time, fewer soldiers and noble guests to stare and murmur, or Spymaster to tease either of them relentlessly about how they can’t keep their hands or mouths off each other before the evidence disappears from their skin. He can already see one by the base of her neck, anyhow.

What can he say? She’s honestly impossible to resist.

But she doesn’t. He can’t feel her teeth. Instead, he feels her lips on his skin, her cheeks puffing and before he can process, she blows against his skin, the most obnoxious of sounds filling the air before he pushes himself off her, letting out a breathy scream.

“Did you just–“ did she just blow a raspberry on his neck? In the middle of– _oh_. Andraste help _her_.

“You didn’t actually think I’d let you get away with tickling me, did you?” she asks smugly.

“And I hope you don’t expect me to let you get away with _that_ ,” he counters, his glare faltering as his lips twist into a smirk. She’s smiling, devious and daring – daring him to try something.

Correction: he _adores_ going to sleep with her, though they probably won’t for a bit.


	60. Honeymoon Avenue

Cullen wakes to... not a nightmare. Huh.

He actually wakes to a shift on the bed, the centre, in fact, where the covers seem to pull and where a weight lighter than his own rests, the weight moving more into the centre as what he assumes is getting smaller and smaller.

It’s too bright for him to open his eyes immediately, and so he rolls over to face it as it steals some of his blankets away, but just a few inches he won’t miss much. With a hand coming up to rub his eyes, Cullen opens them to spot a head of messy brown hair peeking out from the blankets, and a sort of bump next to him only.

“Cold?” he croaks, throat still, well, of the morning. She hums, equally raspy before rolling away from him once in her ball to face him, maybe, and then wiggling over closer to him, forehead and eyes emerging from the covers, but only those, and nothing more.

“Fereldan mornings are weirdly cold.”

“Skyhold is situated in the mountains,” he says pointedly.

“Yeah,” she nods, pulling the blanket down under her chin, lopsided and tired morning smile in view to start his day. “But wind doesn’t get in the room if I close all the doors. Yours is another case.”

He does distinctly recall her being a little clingy in her sleep, not that he minds of course, but now he knows why.

Cullen opens his arms, not waiting for her response as he pulls her up against his chest. He knows she won’t protest by now. She probably would’ve asked if she could in the first place.

“I was just about to ask for some cuddles and snuggles,” she muses. _Called it_. “Can you read my mind now?”

“No, but I’m starting to pick up our routine,” he murmurs, brushing her nose with his the moment she turns to look up at him. He knows what and how they do things by now, and she obviously does, too.

And evidently so does the rest of the occupants of the inn, at least if their unsubtle complaints about them are any indication. Part of him wonders if Leliana knows every little detail of their relationship. Another part of him tells him to not think about it for his own safety.

He rubs her arms, closing his eyes and just letting himself feel the way his skin doesn’t tingle when she touches him, not nervous, nor anxious. He can feel the way she wraps her arms around him from under his, hands coming up to the centre of his back, ghostly there, but he knows they’re there now, the way she casually brushes his leg with hers, sliding one of them between both of his before wrapping the other either around his waist or just shy of it – shy today. He opens an eye, watches the way her shoulders become less tense and she just relaxes, eyes slowly closing with that sort of perpetual little almost smile on her lips – comfortable and content.

It doesn’t quite last, however, as she opens her eyes, fairly tired with that sleepy smile that, when he saw it for the first time made his heart pound so loudly he could barely hear anything else. Now? Familiar. Comforting in that way – something he knows he’ll see over and over without end, and without ever tiring of it.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“Don’t you have a work thing this morning?” she yawns, eyes downcast as she tries to recall all the details, most likely. Most certainly, actually. She always averts her gaze when in thought and– ah, there she goes, biting her lip, too.

“Maker, I do,” he sighs, not wanting to bring a quiet morning to an end and fill it with stubborn Fereldans and trying to reason with them to let him station more Inquisition soldiers in the area.

She reluctantly removes herself from him and the covers, shivering for a moment as the morning air hits her preparing for their morning routine.

Said routine starts with getting up after copious amounts of kissing (or in today’s case, a bit of snoozing), and getting dressed. She’s quick with it, but his armor takes time, and some mornings ago they silently agreed that she would just help him with it (but not without asking formally, an unusually easy conversation without words but their eyes and expressions, just to be polite), because she knows every buckle now. Even as they wash their mouths, fix their hair, and perform other assorted morning rituals, it takes him half as long to get it all done and as a result, he has more time to trail his lips across hers, down her chin and neck before picking her up, her legs around his waist as he presses her against the door for a few minutes, hands roaming said legs, very nice ones, nipping her ear, sucking, leaving little marks when he really should stop, and listening to the way she sort of just... well, it’s this mix of a sigh, gasp, laugh, and with just the slightest bit of a moan, usually wrapped up in the way his name leaves her lips. She doesn't let it slip very often, but when she does...

Andraste preserve him.

He’s heard a few people call the little grin teasing his lips as smug, but it’s just an unbelievably good morning, so really, how could he not?


	61. She Said

When she was younger, Adella was a fool for the sort of thing that damn good looking blond man and his knife-ear were doing.

Every.

Single.

Fucking.

Day.

She’d hate them a little more were it not for the fact that once upon a time, because yes, _once upon a time_ , she and Daniel had the same. Oh yes, once when they were younger they, too, would stare longingly at each other while across the damn room. Of course, her father had kept them from being together, so they were reduced to such things. The excuse for this man and his elf? Adella isn’t certain, considering they spend at least forty-five minutes in their room laughing and Maker know what else. Again, _every single fucking day_.

 _And_ night.

She’s a pious woman, Adella. She prays to the Maker, she sings the chant. Sure, she reads smutty literature, but she doesn’t deserve to be subjected to two young people and their obnoxiously sickening romance. Maybe Daniel doesn’t pray enough, and considering how often his eyes roam, maybe... no, she shouldn’t blame him for being the reason the Maker won’t come back or tell these two next door to _tone it down_. He’s... all right. He’s still good to her, but he certainly could be better. When was the last time he ever took her out for a picnic? That unromantic little... ugh.

Oh, but when they were younger... how they would travel and just be happy because they were together, like this elf and her man she so adoringly refers to as her _dear_ or _darling Commander_ in that sweet little voice that could give anyone a toothache. She wonders what he calls her. She wonders about their names, and how they say them, especially hers on his tongue – elven names are often soft, and Maker’s mercy, _his voice_.

Adella shakes the thought from her head. They’re _irritating_ , flaunting their romance in everyone’s faces. She’ll just need to stick hers back in a book – where did she leave that copy of _Swords and Shields_ again?

Rounding the corner, she stops short at the sound of the elven girl’s little giggle. Discreetly, she peers at them, watching as the Commander, clad in armor and a fur mantle, wraps his arms around his elf’s waist, pulling her closer. While she cannot see, she can quite imagine what they’re doing, the sound of the elf girl’s perpetual laughter as she probably parts her lips as she smiles ever sweetly, the sound of their lips together, wet, slow... the way he exhales shakily and hums, presumably from the way their tongues just, oh, she saw them and whatever it was that little elven girl does with her tongue that has her darling Commander weak in the knees and wrapped around her smallest finger as she decidedly wraps her arms and legs around him as he presses her up against something – the old treehouse nearby, virtually every wall or door at the inn, the ground. Who didn’t?

Maker, they’re positively _horrid_. Yet for some reason... she can’t seem to look away.

A soft little moan (his moan, _Andraste preserve her_ ) follows before Adella can hear him grumbling slightly, and then, “You tease.”

Obviously she pulled back first, Adella notes. Why, though? Why would anyone ever do anything to make that delicious man frown? Not that she can tell, of course, but he probably is. Damn, that girl better–

“I’m not. You’re going to be late, Commander,” she murmurs, “and the sooner you leave, the sooner you can come back.”

“Ah.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“And see whether Ser Bobbert and I have set something on fire,” she adds. He snorts. “For research purposes, of course.”

“ _Of course_ ,” he scoffs. “Try not to destroy anything while I’m gone.”

“You ask so much of me,” she responds. “Try to hurry back before I do.”

“Don’t get into any trouble.”

“Who, me? _I would never_.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Oh, how will I survive without you? Every minute we’re apart is an eternity. And a half,” she says dramatically before he picks her up, spinning her around as their lips meet again. Adella sighs – Maker, who does that anymore? Or better question: why doesn’t anyone ever do that anymore?

“And a half?”

“Fine – and three quarters. Better?”

“I’ll take what I can get,” he chuckles. Adella can see them and their smiles now, having turned about, disgustingly and adorably happy as he sets her down and she gives his hand a squeeze before he comes walking down the hall. Maker, the way they just sort of... gaze into each other’s eyes. Again: who does that anymore?

“Try not to pick a fight with anyone,” she practically sings after him. He scoffs.

“Pardon me,” he says to Adella, laughter lacing his words before nodding and moving past her. All she can do is shake her head, because _Maker_. She’s starting to understand why there’s some much giggling next door every morning now.

She would, too.

Gorgeous, romantic, sweet, and unbelievably earnest. Adella has half the mind to think poorly of him in some manner, after all, taking an elven servant with him while he’s out on business? It looks bad, but... few could possibly fake the look in his eyes when he sees her. She’s a pretty little thing. There must be something about her.

Maker, she needs to find that book and _read_.


	62. He Said

Maker’s balls, there’s something about this one – that tattoo, that walk, those eyes, her smile, laugh, that ass, and legs that go for _days_.

He can’t stop imagining what it’d be like to bend her over a basin and – Maker, that blond boy...

“A commander of some sort, dear,” Adella reminds him, obviously frustrated with the one-sided conversation they’re having as he indiscreetly watches _the Commander’s_ elven girl talk with the barmaid. “He’s here on business with some elven servant, completely unashamed of how public they’re being!”

“Right,” Daniel nods. Lucky bastard. Where in Thedas did he find a creature like that? Young, pretty little thing, slender, graceful, all the sweetness in the world with a smile, but the devil in those eyes, wrapped together in a perfect package of irresistible sin every time she laughs, or _giggles_. Andraste’s tits, he feels like he needs to pray at night each time she does, _and she does_. Oh, how she does, and _often_ with her little blond commander.

He’s caught them in a few corners about the inn, more recently by the broken treehouse just _all over each other –_ those damn fantastic legs wrapped around his waist, hands in his hair, digging into his shoulder as he pushes her against a wall or the trunk of a tree, the way she murmurs his name by his ear before nipping it, that beautiful savage creature, grinning when he takes his lips from wherever they were on her neck, their tongues just... Andraste’s ass.

He can only imagine.

He remembers a time when Adella would look at him the way this knife-ear does that commander – _“Let’s go – just us. Who cares what they think?”_ Adella once said to him. They haven’t looked back since. He wonders if her old man is still alive, and whether his brothers are all right.

It’s not lust, what this savage girl and her commander have. Daniel’s very well acquainted with lust. Lust is him slowly picking at his food because watching that savage elf girl walk with those swaying hips, that ass and those legs has him a little hard, and his wife would probably sock him in the balls if she saw.

Lust is when she bites her lower lip and smiles as she speaks to the barmaid, leaning over the counter and listening to her talk, and he’s absolutely certain he’s not the only one in the room thinking about how she’d look biting her lip as they fuck her against any and all hard surfaces.

But he can’t. None of them can, save one: her guy, Mr. Commander. The way she looks at him... Maker, Adella used to look at him the same when they first met, back when they were younger. They also used to screw each other relentlessly when they were younger, too.

These two aren’t, Mr. Commander and Little Miss Dalish Legs. If they were, he and his wife would be hearing more than laughing, teasing, joking, laugh-screaming, raspberries, and conversations about facial hair, moustaches, some guy named Dorian, nugs, chocolate nugs, a warrior woman named Cassandra, chest hair and another guy named Varric. Wait, isn’t that the name of the author of Adella’s book? Swords and... what was it again?

No, these two are just being cute. Mr. Commander isn’t just trying to get into her pants by pretending to be sweet – he’s seen the way this guy just gets when he’s with her. That stupid, shit-eating happy look on his face, a half smile out of nowhere on his way out the door like this morning, for one, turning back to glance at the hall like an idiot. Daniel used to get the same when he was younger, according to his brothers.

He glances at his wife – stubborn, aggressive, bold, and daring Della – Della who punched a man in the face because he looked at her funny, finds them odd jobs wherever they go before they decide to get up and move again, see the rest of the world together, and never putting up with his shit. Maker, she’s even wearing her hair in that braid-bun thing like she did when she was younger.

His eyes may wander but there isn’t a soul in the world who handles and puts up with him the way Della does. And Maker’s balls, how she _handles him_.

“Della, hun?” he asks.

“Yes, _Danny_?” she responds slowly, eyeing him suspiciously. “What is it?”

“What are your plans today?”

“I was going to read,” she sniffs, probably still irritated with his judgment regarding the genre of her new favourite book.

“Why don’t we do some _reading_ together, then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed posting several chapters at once.
> 
> Finished editing some of the previous chapters. Minor changes, nothing serious but yeah. Special thanks to those to pointed some issues out. Hope you don't mind me removing comments as they're not necessary anymore.


	63. too much is not enough

Dealing with Fereldans – his own – only reminds Cullen that very soon the Inquisition will be moving in closely to deal with Orlesian politics in the middle of a civil war. Maker, they’re going to have to play The _Great_ Game, aren’t they?

After several hours of coordinating troops, followed by two hours of insist _debating_ (arguing), marginal voice raising to somehow make points come across more clearly, Cullen and one Captain Bishop just barely come to an agreement in regards to how many of their soldiers are allowed occupy the area.

 _Barely_.

There’s something overwhelmingly unsatisfying about _barely_ managing to do his job, and about one of his own _barely_ cooperating. It’s as though he’s almost incapable of doing anything right, or he does poorly, or his performance is subpar and if he were to slack, falter, or misstep just once, everything would come crumbling down.

His ride back to the inn lacks the cheer from the one this morning, to say the least. Cullen returns weary and frustrated, ready to just... well, he could certainly work, after all that’s normally what he would do at Skyhold, find something equally or even more frustrating to take his attention away, doing things properly with every fibre of his being, but something in his head won’t stop whispering – even if he has something work-related waiting for him, who’s to say he won’t _barely_ make that work, as well? Why is he relaxing?

_Why aren’t you working harder?_

He does his best to shake the feelings and thoughts from his head. He shouldn’t push himself too hard again, or he won’t be able to do _anything_. And that’s even worse.

He argues with himself, well, the whispers and doubts. He had– no, _has_ everything in order, planned meticulously to ensure that this trip would not hinder the Inquisition. Their soldiers are not far in case of an emergency, Baron Plucky and Leliana are constantly flying in information for him – everything’s fine. One thing at a time.

Cullen takes a deep breath – _one thing at a time_.

Still...

Their room is empty when he opens the door. Cullen strips off his armor absently, wondering where she may have disappeared to, whether she had gone off to set something on fire without Ser Bobbert, or off looking for trouble. He smiles to himself; he has her at the end of the day at least, ready to make him laugh his frustrations of the day off, talk or not talk them into a distant memory, or just... take his thoughts from him.

Without her, however, Cullen decides to go for a run. Maybe he can tire himself out.

He manages six laps around the incredibly small village before stopping some two hundred metres from the inn, peeling his sweat-drenched tunic off and walking slowly back. His heart pounds too loudly for him to really hear a few of the women in passing murmur things to each other, and his own panting helps drown out any other sounds as well. Cullen sways slightly, almost dizzy from pushing himself, his body more tired than he intended as he slowly makes his way through the door and the tavern, upstairs, and finally to the room, requesting for a bath to be drawn first on his way up.

He’s too worn to care about the maid who lingers, Cullen lying on the bed with his arm covering his eyes. He thanks her shortly after, practically walking her out the door before shutting it behind her, stripping off his boots, trousers, smallclothes, and sinking into the tub promptly after.

What starts out as relaxing soon becomes too quiet, and it doesn’t take long for his mind to wander back to those thoughts he only just outran – how it took him a few minutes to adjust to working again after just a few days of her and nothing else – _slacker_ – how much work he has in store, how much Josephine’ll want to murder him for leaving almost abruptly with the Inquisitor in tow. What if, when they get back, things are worse? What if one small thing causes a collapse? What if it’s his fault?

No... no, no, no, no, no, no, _no_. Think about something else. Something that’s much more insistent, and that he has an investment in – something he can’t not think about.

She sneaks up on him – in his thoughts as she does in reality. Perfect.

He thinks about taking her to the lake, wondering if she’d jump in because she probably would. There, _much better_.

Thinking about it, the lake would’ve been the perfect place to take any girl out to have his first kiss. He can’t even remember his, probably unbelievably bad on his part, idiot... but if he could do it again – the lake. He wonders what that would have been like, and with whom. Probably Katherine, assuming she’d stay the girl next door, and in a life where he didn’t join the Templars.

Damn it... his mind starts to wander from there. His life, the Order, the Circle, the mage he was so terribly smitten with in secret, the desire demons and Make’s breath, could he please have one day without lingering thoughts?

 _No... circle back_. What was he thinking about?

Oh, right: first kiss. He can’t remember the first one ever, damn fool, but he can remember his first kiss with her. It was fumbling, awkward, inexperienced, and he hit her nose with his – might as well be the very first. He remembers just wanting to so badly, the month prior filled with her absence, and the ones before that with her relentless teasing.

She also nipped at his lip and used the slightest bit of tongue. During their first kiss. Maker’s brea–

Cullen laughs, because of course she would. And they did spend another half an hour there just... _ahem_.

A musical little knock on the door interrupts his thoughts and soon enough, “Commander? Are you in?”

“Uh,” Cullen clears his throat, inching back to look at her past the screen that separates the tub from the rest of the room. “I’m... in the bath.”

She tilts her head, grinning as their eyes meet. “So I see.”

”I-I’ll be out in a moment,” he says hastily, splashing about.

“Oh, no, take your time,” she says with ease, moving to sit on the other side of the screen, and from what he can tell, her back facing him. “Long day?”

“You have no idea,” he sighs, but she does have a particular talent for shortening them. He’ll have to ask her to do so. Just maybe not in those exact words.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I don’t want to waste your time.”

“Do you wanna do anything else, then?” she asks in response. He appreciates her not trying to get him to talk. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Not yet. Have you?”

“Nope,” she says easily, obviously not displeased with the fact – they’ll dine together, which she rather enjoys. “Shall we eat together?”

“Of course.”

“Up here or downstairs?”

“Here, if that’s all right with you,” he exhales, a little too tired to be around other people, even if he’ll only be with one. She hums, rises from her seat and heads out the door to request a meal for two to be brought up.

That... could have unfolded in a few different ways, the most likely scenario, to Cullen, being an unbearably embarrassing one. He’s thankful she’s polite about it, as he doesn’t think he has the capacity to handle it with any semblance of grace right now. Not that he ever has much grace when he’s with her, anyway, but still.

Cullen exits the tub shortly after, the water starting to get cold, and he’ll want to be wearing something when he eats. Wrapping a linen towel around his waist he moves to find himself new clothes, shuffling about for a moment only to be interrupted with an, “Oh, sorry!”

She shuts the door much more loudly than how she opened it, as he can hear it click. Cullen looks over his shoulder, alone in the room of course, but he stumbles to clothe himself more quickly, holding his tunic to his skin just in case she can see through doors.

“I-I’m done,” he clears his throat, sticking his arms into a clean shirt. The door creaks open slowly, and only when it’s just slightly ajar does she stick her head into the room first. “I’m sorry, I should have–“

“I should have knocked,” she interrupts, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her. “I mean we’ve gone to bed together, you without a shirt several times before but, um...”

“But...?” he echoes. She’s seen him naked before, too, after all. Not that he wants to think about that particular incident.

“Do you remember when you told me that this was your first real relationship?”

“I do,” he nods, clearing his throat. Does she really need to bring that back? It’s a little embarrassing, and he’s already terribly flustered as it is.

“Well, it’s my first, too. Real one, I mean,” she confesses. “I mean I’ve had sex before so I’ve seen... well, that. And I’ve seen you, from the game of Wicked Grace, but, um... this is different? So: I’m sorry. I definitely should have knocked first. I don’t want to overstep or I dunno, move too quickly or anything. Not that we’re really, um... yeah.”

About a dozen thoughts run through Cullen’s mind the moment she finishes her sentence, most, if not all, about her, much more insistent than his more frustrating thoughts earlier today, and he’s more than happy to preoccupy himself with her. She’s blushing, watching his expression with an anxious one of her own, likely anticipating his response. She’s fidgeting, playing with her fingers as he tries to slowly process the implications of how adamant she is with her apology for an accident because this is her first real relationship, _too_ , she’s no stranger to nudity, and yet... _this is different_. It’s important to her that she doesn’t do anything she might think is wrong, or overstep, or offend him, and Andraste preserve him.

Cullen finds himself taking a few larger strides to move to her, crashing his lips right into hers for a moment.

“Okay,” she breathes as they part lips. “Um... not the response I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know, but it wasn’t that,” she responds quite thoughtfully. “Not that I’m complaining.”

He wants to say something – something about how much it means that that’s how she feels, but also that he always thought she actually knew precisely what she was doing all the time. Instead he picks her up, listens to her surprised squeak before laughing as he walks them both to the bed, setting her down, brushing his fingers up her leg, waist, arms, up to her cheek as she leans into his touch.

Well, his day just got better.

He could get used to this. He may have already.

The realization that he has also reminds him that they only have about two more days out here before business is concluded and they’ll need to return to Skyhold and their duties. No more mornings, afternoons, and evenings with just her, being as excessively affectionate as they have been, all over each other with little care because no one knows them. No more free time to just play – actual games, read, enjoy each other’s company while doing separate things in silence. No more spending the day with her in bed because he’s too exhausted and she’s more than willing to stay with him and help him however she can.

They’ll have to steal each other away again, which is fun, of course, exciting in a younger sense, catching him up on all the things he’d only ever heard about from others with him in Templar training. But this?

He presses his lips to hers, relishes the way she returns his kisses daintily at first, growing more and more amorous with each, leaving him positively ravenous as she leans back, Cullen following as he trails his lips past her chin down to her neck, backtracking up to her ear, nipping so he might catch that enticing little gasp, which turns out to be even better as it’s mixed with the way she just–

“ _Cullen_...”

Maker. He’s never going to tire of hearing her say his name like that.

She digs her fingers into his hair as a leg comes up to wrap around his waist, _tightly_ , he might add, and it dawns on him that he wants _more_.

Whatever had told him to hold those reservations, to maintain a distance and be polite is also quieter now in the face of, well, her face. And her chest. And the way her leg feels around him. And the way she’s looking at him – affectionate, mildly flustered, and pleased, which only has him wanting _even more_ than _more_. How much more is that? Cullen isn’t certain, but when he crashes his lips to hers once more, kisses her more aggressively than their usual way, when he presses his body against hers as she grips his shirt, other leg coming up between both of his, their tongues caressing as all he can hear is her hum and moan as she moves to press all of herself against him, all he knows is that he wants. Badly. Maybe even needs.

They’ve discussed taking things slower, and it’s now out in the open that they both don’t want to rush things in fear of ruining them. Of course, taking things slowly didn’t exactly work out when they tried, and what they’re doing _now_ doesn’t quite help.

“Cullen,” she murmurs again between a kiss, yearning.

And neither does that.

Usually – and he is not in the least dissatisfied with how they do things – they kiss until they are breathless (which they have now done). Usually, they stop after, taking a moment to find their bearings and usually stealing a few extra kisses, maybe brush noses, he’ll watch her fiddle with the collar of his shirt, lock their fingers together, so on.

But this is _unusual_. He isn’t playing with her hair, he’s watching her as she watches him – they’re looking at each other as their breathing settles in unison. But while she commits his scars to memory, smiling and enjoying his company, his eyes are curious, studying, wondering how much he wants tonight, whether he should ask it out loud, and whether he can actually even articulate the words at all. He doesn’t know how much he wants, only that he would willingly drown in the way she treats him, and speaking of...

She brings a hand up to brush his cheek with a finger, gives a darling little smile before she bites her lip, Maker’s breath, and inches forward to press a dainty little kiss to his lips, smile and everything.

He returns it, and damn, this isn’t any better because as he sits up, as he pulls her into his lap and she runs a hand through his hair, as she hums, content, kissing and smiling, they’re changing the dynamic – _want_ becomes _need_ , or perhaps they’re twisting them together and soon Cullen won’t be able to distinguish one from the other and he’ll simply _want-need_ her for all her affection, attention, for her politeness and blushing, for the courtesy to not pry about his day but he knows she’ll lend an ear whenever, even in the middle of the night, for her laughter, and for the way she makes him laugh as well.

And the way her body feels against his, because Maker’s breath... he needs to pray. Or he needs to just– her.

He holds her closer, closer than normal, and when he runs his hands up and down her body he does so with more desire – he wants to feel more. He needs to.

The way she kisses him – gentle and sweet, he pushes for more, and naturally, because she’s competitive and he knows this, she’ll push back. Light smiles turn to laughter and she places her hands on his chest, pushing him onto his back as she adjusts herself, straddles him, leaning over him with that devilish smile he’s so fond of.

But, of course, _of course_ , Maker breath... or perhaps this is the Maker’s way of telling him to go pray, “Excuse me?” someone asks on the other side of the door, a knock following. “Pardon me, but–“

“Just a second,” she responds, eyes on him as she slowly, horrifically sensuously because it’s driving him absolutely mad, lowers herself, chest against his, casually and sweetly brushing her nose upward across his, the tip of her tongue teasing his lips as he parts them, hoping to catch her and keep her on top of him instead of going to the door.

Of course she pushes herself off him before he can, quick little rogue, answering the door ever sweetly before bringing their food in on a tray to the table. Even as the aroma of their meal fills the air – and he is actually a little hungry – Cullen can feel his craving for something else bubbling, and with the way she sticks a piece of fruit in her mouth, eyes on him, he’d say that she knows.

“So what do you wanna do after food?” she asks.

Where to even begin?


	64. house made of paper

So... more.

And then... even more than more.

It’s not sex. He just needs to get that out there first.

 _More_ and _even more than more_ (because he’s now just realizing how much of her mannerisms he’s starting to pick up – but they just _work_ ) is not simply having her or thirsting after her, because he is not unaware of how many other gentlemen at this inn, Skyhold, and even among some of their soldiers look at her. If he can even call them that.

How could they not? Well, they could simply just _not_.

He knows that Daniel, or _Danny_ as his wife Adella calls him, especially when she’s screaming his name literally just a wall away as they have relentlessly loud and aggressive sex almost all night long, has looked at Lav in such a way.

And it’s not as though he’s never noticed that she’s pretty, because she is. She always is – when she’s happy, when she’s excited, giddy, mischievous, and even that one time she was distressed and unhappy. There’s just something about her that’s perpetually captivating in just about every way.

But she’s not just a pair of nice legs, curious eyes, or flawless hair.

She’s more than that. And he wants that – he wants to be with more of what makes her more.

It’s burying his face into her hair as he practically clings to her in his sleep, like when he was a little boy and always had that stuffed bear that lost an eye. More is the way she giggles because his facial hair tickles as he accidentally brushes his cheek against her chest. More is having their dinner sent up as he relaxes and then finding them a quiet spot on the roof to move when Danny and Della start to scream as though someone tore another hole in the sky.

Even more than more is how they take an evening stroll together and his frustrating day with Captain Bishop and his nagging thoughts are something he can share with her openly because he doesn’t want it to hinder him, and he trusts her to sort of... catch his feelings, hold them, or something. She’s there, she’s always there, and he can trust her. He can lean on her, and he won’t feel guilty or bad because she never makes him feel just so.

And even more than that is when she pries herself from his arms in the morning because their neighbours start up again with their aggressively obnoxious and loud sex. He doesn’t know what she does, only that Daniel and Adella scream about a fire and promptly rush out of their room as she crawls back into bed with him, curling back into her place in his arms before they snooze until noon together, because they can. At least for another day, anyway.

He needs this. He want-needs this, and part of him almost dreads going back to Skyhold because he will lose these lazy mornings and afternoons with her – they'll have to go back to stealing time or being late to everything each morning again. He won’t be able to just wake up to her legs tangled with his, one arm lazily wrapped around his waist day after day after day after day, or curled into a ball, back facing him as he unravels her slightly, pulling her up against his chest for several hours, pressing a tender little kiss to the nape of her neck before she can protest. She’ll have to come and go from the fortress for months at a time again, Cullen unsure of whether she’ll make it back alive or unharmed each time. He won't lie: he worries when she leaves.

When they’re both considerably caught up on the hours of sleep their neighbours stole from them (and likely every other person at the inn), he tips her chin upward to face him, taking her attention away from whatever she was drawing on his chest with a finger, and pressing his lips to hers.

“Morning.”

“Pretty sure it’s the afternoon now.”

“Thanks to you,” he says. “What exactly did you do to them?”

“I didn’t do a thing,” she lies. “I’m a changed elf. I would never.”

“Mhm-hmm.”

“That you suspect me of such behaviour after all this time together wounds me, Commander,” she counters. “But did you sleep well?”

“I did, thanks to whomever started the fire in their room.”

“Considering how many times they both called your Maker, I’m sure it was him – divine intervention.”

“Of course,” he chuckles. “We should probably get out of bed.”

“Can we have five more minutes?”

“I think the last three hours was enough.”

“Please?” she bats her lashes, pouting just slightly and snuggling closer to him. “Pretty please?”

“I’m not falling for this,” Cullen clears his throat. He is not falling for thi– _Maker’s breath_.

She kisses his Adam’s Apple, then again to his chin, biting her lip as he looks down to meet her gaze and Andraste preserve him... he’s going to crack.

She brings a leg up to drape across his thigh under the sheets, and Cullen’s hand immediately goes to just drag itself across it because... well, _her legs_.

Try as he may to resist, she kisses the corner of his lips, flick of her tongue just barely making contact and Cullen just knows they won’t be leaving their room for a bit. Fifteen minutes, give or take.

He wants more of this, too.


	65. You've got it bad.

They’re playing games.

Not her game without rules, or The Great Game, but actual games.

Three rounds of chess (which he won, Maker, she’s terrible at it and still trying to cheat) and now: hide and seek. She’s horrifically good at this one, and pretty much plays like a prowler. Of the ten rounds thus far she’s won nine, and he’s certain she let him have one, just to be nice, or maybe not. Payback for all those chess games, no doubt.

“You’re a rogue. I’d hardly call this fair,” he says aloud, eyes scanning the field before him, hoping to goad her. She could be hiding in the barn, but that’d be far too predictable. Other options would be bushes, behind or in trees, back at the inn or–

He feels the air shift around him, and in an instant her lips are tenderly pressed against his. Cullen lifts his arms slightly, guesses where he might find her waist, wrapping them around the empty space before him. The moment he touches her, she seemingly appears out of thin air.

“Found you.”

“Aaaahh, you’re so good at this,” she grins. She glances down at his arms, comfortably around her waist. “Really good at this, it would seem.”

“I’m learning,” he smiles, pecking her lips once more. “So, nine out of eleven. What would you like to do next?”

“I dunno,” she shrugs, still beaming. “And I kinda like that I don’t.”

“Oh?”

“I need to time things right in order to find an hour or two in the day to be with you back at Skyhold, and I like having two,” she sighs. “Being the big boss? Not that fun. Not that I think being commander of our entire army is any less stressful.”

He chuckles. The soldiers may complain from time to time for being posted somewhere like the Mire, but the mundane routine of war meetings, training recruits, coordinating with allies (picky allies, at that), corresponding with his lieutenants and captains who also have handfuls of work of their own, having Josephine breathing down his neck when one soldier does something to offend a lord somewhere by sneezing... it’s not that fun. “So you moved it to the evening.”

He always did wonder why she visited him last.

“Yeah. It was a little harder when we didn’t go to bed together, ‘cause then I’d have to time that right, too; I couldn’t visit you too late or early,” she continues. “I kinda like feeling like we have all the time in the world to not know what to do, even though we don’t really. I like that I can do nothing with you like this – that we have time to just... kinda _be_ , y’know? Like this morning. And I like just being. With you.”

“Then I’ll need to arrange more trips once we get back,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. The amount of times she used ‘we’, talking about the both of them and having all the time in the world together makes him think for the first time about doing just that: having all the time in the world to be with her.

All of his time in the world to be with her.

Having a life with her.

The rest of his life with her.

It wasn’t that he never wanted one with her before, but he never really thought beyond what they did – stealing her away for a moment back at the fortress, worrying about her safe return while she was away, spending their evenings together and then going to bed with her curled comfortably in his arms or in a ball because she can and it’s ridiculous and adorable, but only after an excessive amount of goodnight kisses that leave them both utterly breathless. It’s all great, he’s never felt this good before in his life, but it suddenly occurs to Cullen that he could do this, _them_ , indefinitely. He could see them together until the end of the Inquisition.

But if this day is any indication, if sleeping in until noon and having all the time in the world _to just be_ and do nothing together feels like this, then he could do this even longer than the span of the Inquisition, however long it is.

And then he realizes: he absolutely would.

It’s the _more_ and _even more than more_ that he want-needs.

He presses his lips to hers in earnest, a grin he thinks that goes from ear to ear on his face.

“One more round.”

“You’re gonna lose,” she laughs.

“I know. I’m counting on it.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Give me a ten minute head start and come find me. I want to take you somewhere,” he smirks, stealing one last kiss before running ahead. “And no cheating.”

She scoffs. “Fine.”


	66. For Luck

He’s about three minutes from the lake when he hears a twig snap behind him. Loudly.

“How long have you been shadowing me?” he asks. She appears just behind, a little to his left, hops forward two steps to be next to him, and grins.

“About fifteen minutes.”

“So stepping on that twig was a polite way of letting me know you were there?”

“Mhm,” she hums. “I actually had to try to find you after your head start.”

“Does that mean I’m getting better at this?”

“A little,” she smiles. “It’s cute that you try.”

“Cute?”

“Might be a little sexier if you could sneak up on me, but we can work on that at a later date if you really want to,” she muses, shrugging a shoulder. He rolls his eyes, chuckling before they fall into a comfortable silence, just a few more paces before they reach the dock. Once they do, she pipes up once more. “Where are we?”

“You walk into danger every day. I wanted to take you away from that. If only for a moment.”

Or a week. Details.

“I grew up not far from here. This place was always quiet,” he explains, the question and several follow-ups already in her eyes as she turns to face him, attentive as always. He moves to lean on the post nearest to him.

“Did you come here often?”

“I loved my siblings, but they were very loud. I would come here to clear my head,” he continues, a little smile of his own teasing his lips at the memory. “Of course, they always found me eventually.”

“You were happy here?”

“I was. I still am,” he nods. Cullen takes a deep breath. It almost doesn’t quite feel real, standing in the same spot again, leaning against the same wooden post. The broken lamp is still here, sitting at the foot of the barrel where a new one had been placed, lit for a few hours now, and the fishing nets in the exact place as before. The air smells the same, and the sound of the water makes him want to try and skip stones again.

She moves to lean over the other post, peering into the lake curiously, straightening after a minute and letting her eyes scan the surrounding area, nothing but trees. Her shoulders slack, and as she moves to grip the post more tightly with her hands, she leans back on her heels, taking a deep breath before letting it go a moment later.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, glancing over her shoulder and sending him one small yet bright smile.

He returns it with one of his own, taking his coin from his pocket. “The last day I was here was the day I left for Templar training. My brother gave me this. It just happened to be in his pocket, but he said it was for luck. Templars are not supposed to carry such things. Our faith should see us through.”

“I don’t think it worked,” she says a little thoughtfully, her smile fading by a fraction. “You haven’t been all that fortunate.”

“I should have died during the Blight. Or at Kirkwall, or Haven. Take your pick. And yet I made it back here,” he remarks, a little astounded at his unusual fortune despite it all. He takes her hand, lets the coin fall from his to hers before placing his other atop, curling her fingers around it. “Humour me. We don’t know what you’ll face before the end. This can’t hurt.”

Her reaction... scares him a little.

She takes a deep breath, her eyes are wide as she looks between her hand, held by both of his, and his eyes. She’s almost trembling in place as she bites her lip, obvious a little nervous which makes him a touch bit nervous himself, before she lets out the breath she’d held.

“Keep it,” she finally says, just ghostly above a whisper. She takes a step forward, hand on top of his. “I don’t want your luck to run out.”

He wants to make a comment – something to make her laugh or to have that little sliver of anxiousness in her eyes disappear. It doesn’t seem like much on one hand – a mere coin that probably doesn’t hold the power of luck, but at the same time, he’s been through quite a bit, and he’s still alive. If he had his way he’d be in her party every time she leaves the fortress, or they’d simply stay here and never return to Skyhold.

But she knows. She knows all that, and yet she would rather he keep his luck. She likely feels bad for saying no, but at the same time he can tell that she truly doesn’t want his luck to run out. He must admit, he finds it quite sweet.

“Nor do I,” he smiles, hand on her waist and the other tipping her chin up so their eyes might meet, his coin comfortably locked between his fingers. “Not when I finally have some.”

“It’s not that I don’t– I mean, it’s– this is honestly the sweetest thing anyone’s ever... um...“

Cullen typically never cuts her off, but he’s willing to make an exception in this case. She looks like she could use a kiss, and so he does. He leans in, her words coming to an abrupt halt as he ghostly brushes the tip of his nose against hers, and closes the distance between them once he spots her little smile, pressing his lips to hers.

“I know,” he murmurs after pulling away, and tucking his coin back into his pocket. “I suppose I ought to keep you close if you’re to have any luck as well.”

“I suppose you should.”

“Then we’re in agreement,” he smirks. “Good.”

“Good,” she echoes. He chuckles, inching down to kiss her once more. Now would be the perfect time to start.


	67. Stop Right Now

Their last day together.

Well, their last day alone and away from the Inquisition (to a certain extent) together.

For some odd reason, it doesn’t feel quite real. It should, Cullen thinks, what with the way the days prior were nothing but, for the most part, utter bliss. He should be waking up from it, but somehow he can’t seem to wrap his mind around leaving.

He brushes a knuckle across her arm, watches the way she stirs slightly at the touch before coming to, a sleepy little smile on her lips when their eyes meet.

“Morning,” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes before taking his hand, still brushing her arm, to press her lips to the palm.

“What do you want to do today?”

“What can’t we get away with at Skyhold?”

No prying eyes, no all-knowing spymaster, author, or scolding ambassador. No soldiers to whisper and smile, no maids deliberately intruding, and no gossiping couriers or nobles who pass by them.

What _can’t_ they get away with?

But, and he absolutely hates the word and the little devil messenger, _but_ a gentle rapping at the shutters interrupts them, and before he can climb out of bed she beats him to it, pulling them open to Baron Plucky, a message attached to his leg.

He absolutely hates Baron Plucky, and he’s not the only one. Just the sight of the damn bird... Maker’s breath. He hates him. Cullen cannot stress that enough.

He watches as her hands remove the parchment from their guest, stepping aside and inviting the little monster in, watching as it flaps a little before settling on the backrest of the chair as she sits down to read. She does not do so out loud, however, opting instead to skim, Cullen watching her eyes as they move, and her brows furrow as she does. Baron Plucky watches her read before turning to look at Cullen for a split moment as he himself gets out of bed.

“Looks like we’re going to have to run away together back to Skyhold,” she says finally. She moves to her pack, rummaging about for a moment for ink, a quill, some parchment, and a snack for the monstrous creature who watches her. She tilts her head as it does the same at her, and laughs a little before tossing it a snack.

“Is it urgent?”

“Sort of?” she muses, eyes going to the ceiling as she ponders. “We should head back to prepare for Halamshiral. Key word: _should_.”

Josephine wants them back. Now.

And they ought to, anyhow.

“Ah,” he nods. “Are you... okay with that?”

“Are you?” she counters, scribbling a response before handing it to him in case he’d like to add something. He doesn’t, instead gives it back to her to attach to the bird. If he doesn't have to, he isn’t getting near that thing.

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second,” she grins. “I’m fully rested, and I don’t mind. Inquisitor isn’t exactly a boring job.”

“Commander has its days,” he hums. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For cutting this short.”

“I had fun. One more day would be nice, but it’s not like I won’t ever see you again,” she smiles, biting her lip. “To be honest I kind of miss sneaking around with you.”

“Hasn’t lost its novelty yet?” he raises a brow.

“Will it ever? You’re _you_ ,” she says, attaching the note to Plucky before offering him an arm. He hops aboard, and she escorts him to the window before sending him off. “Sneaking around with the big, scary commander who’s actually a sweetheart never gets old.”

He chuckles, presses his lips to her hair the moment she turns around.

“I’ll sign us out of the inn, and be back to help clean up,” he says, tossing a few of his stray shirts into his bag. “Please take your time. I’ll ready the horses after.”

“I’ll make sure no one finds the body,” she nods seriously.

“You’re ridiculous," he rolls his eyes, but grins.

“Hasn’t lost its novelty yet?”

“Will it ever?” he echoes. “You’re _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formal apology for a month for a smarmy little thing of a chapter OTL


	68. Game On

Their return is met with great interest.

Nobles, servants, merchants, and soldiers alike theorize about what precisely they did away from Skyhold, alone together for a week.

Only a small portion of their guesses are correct – they were indeed all over each other, but not as much as most would think.

“I heard they spent every day in bed.”

“I overheard one of the soldiers say he heard someone at the inn say that he was sleeping with some elven servant there, but she was completely unaware!”

“I thought he heard them make love so loudly that someone set a fire just to get them to stop.”

“I heard that the inn’s occupants complained about them so much that he took her somewhere private and just had his way with her there, out in the open.”

Cullen is thankful for the mass pile of reports and other Inquisition-related issues waiting for him in his office, all new. There, he also finds an orchid sitting in the bottle-vase upon entry. So she made the time to sneak in here before tackling her own work.

He smiles. Classic her.

Hours seem to pass, or perhaps time disappears completely, as he drills his quill into parchment, emptying ink bottle after bottle in an attempt to catch up and hopefully get ahead of his work. He feels refreshed, that week serving him quite well, too. He imagines she’s up to no good once more, wherever she is in Skyhold.

As he finishes up with his war reports, correspondences with his captains, overseeing rotations, supply shipments, and other related matters, Cullen happens upon a missive regarding the cells from Gatsi. Addressed to him as well as Leliana and Lav, likely having been passed along, it asks him to attend to the cells, provide an estimate on any potential prisoners.

He does distinctly recall a gaping hole in the second room which would make escape or death quite easy, as well as Alexius, who was kept in the cells in the chantry basement back at Haven before being locked into one of the more secure ones in the fortress. One other particular person was also kept under the chantry as well.

Cullen rises from his seat, doing his best to stretch in his armor as he cracks his knuckles, neck, flexes his fingers before opening a door, only to backtrack inside for a lamp. Time truly did fly. Right past him, in fact.

As he descends the staircase by the barn he can hear a few greetings which he returns, as well as a small handful of murmurs on how he probably bent the Inquisitor over every hard surface and had her. Those he ignores as best he can, thankful that time had left him behind, the night sky hiding his likely red face. Maker, these people are terrible.

He pauses momentarily by the wounded, asks the surgeon if she needs anything, to which she responds no politely, and also checks to see if a certain elf is pretending to be a volunteer. She isn’t, and so he continues.

Passing Three-Eyes and a few soldiers who enjoy his evening challenges, Cullen opens the door to the cells and descends the staircase. As he ventures deeper, he can hear one of their guards protesting, as well as laughing, the sound of chains rattling, and some of the cell doors scratching against the stone, as if being shaken. As far as he knows, they aren’t holding anyone at present.

Once he reaches the bottom, however, everything makes sense.

“Oh, hey Commander. Fancy meeting you here,” Lav greets, locked in one of the cells with her hands chained. Gatsi is present as well.

“Stone met, Commander,” the mason adds as he moves from cell to cell, shaking each door and kicking them to ensure that literally breaking free isn’t a viable option to their potential captives, moving inside the cells and closing them behind him, repeating the process again. “I see you got my message.”

“I did, thank you,” Cullen nods, moving farther into the room to inspect. While they don’t have any prisoners at the moment, they could. Josephine was attacked, after all, and he’s certain Leliana would want to have any potential assailants questioned. Or tortured.

There was also that period in which Lav had left for several months, Mistress Pouline, the mayor of Crestwood, and a Warden coming to Skyhold and being held as prisoners. Cullen watches as Gatsi enters each cell, inspecting the walls, writing notes down upon entering some that are more run down. Had that Warden not come willingly, he’s certain she could have escaped, and with their Warden allies coming and going, blending in and leaving freely wouldn’t have been an issue.

“You’ve been in there for half an hour, Inquisitor. You’re not getting out,” the guard chuckles.

“How do you know that’s not part of my escape plan?” she counters, shaking her chains. She falls back onto the cell bedroll. “These are dreadfully uncomfortable.”

“Shall we move you into a better room?”

As the guard continues to tease their superior, Cullen turns his attention to Gatsi.

“How does it look?” he asks.

“In here? Doable, depending on who we hold,” Gatsi explains, obviously referring to their civilian prisoners. He jerks a thumb to the door to the second room, “Out there: bad, to put it lightly. I’ve already got the okay from the Inquisitor-prisoner over there. She’s got a quarry and logging site just for us set aside.”

“But?”

“But with three prisoners, two civilians and a warrior who surrendered willingly coming in at max, the necessity becomes less of a necessity, and more a question: how many people do you, the Spymaster, and Inquisitor, think you’ll be holding? I don’t know what you’ll be putting in here.”

Corypheus obviously wouldn’t fit.

“If it isn’t urgent, there are other areas the Lady Ambassador would have us funnel our resources and attention, not that we can’t get more when we need them, but we do have priorities. This isn’t free time,” Gatsi continues. Cullen nods in thought, that one time Josephine was huffing about one of the guestrooms’ ceilings collapsing, and some of the servants tossing spare paintings and other assorted decorations into the room last minute coming to mind.

“No cells for the ambassador?” the guard chimes in.

“Not unless she’d like to destroy negotiations,” Cullen murmurs, although... she might, under certain circumstances, but he doubts they’d be too much of an issue. He ponders for a moment – in most cases Lav leaves himself and Leliana (and when applicable, Josephine) to make their own choices without her, more so Leliana in this case with those she interrogates. Of course, from what his people gather, mostly from guarding her captives, they’re typically situated outside of Skyhold, wherever their closest base might be, such as their keeps.

Their next move is Halamshiral, where an assassination attempt on Celene is to take place. An ordinary assassin (as far as those go) is what they might be dealing with, and so breaking out of their cell, assuming the assassin survives and they bring them all the way out here, is less likely. If anything, they’d probably try and sneak out without causing a scene.

Well, that explains why _she’s_ in a cell.

“Inquisitor, say you were an assassin,” Cullen starts, turning to her cell. “How would you bre— where is she?”

“What?” the guard asks, jogging to her cell. As she moves to unlock it, the door creaks open on its own, the lock having been picked, and her chains sitting on the bedroll. “Maker’s breath, she was just here.”

“How long have we been talking?” Cullen asks.

“Three minutes,” Gatsi responds. “If she _were_ an assassin, she’d be making her way from the fortress right now.”

“Not on foot. At least not without the proper gear to trek through the mountains,” the guard shrugs.

“Our people, even the ones coming back for a change in personnel, would catch her first,” Cullen continues. “Suppose she is a real assassin then, and she’s just escaped. You’d have confiscated her things first, would you not? Where would you hold them?”

“For the time being? Probably the gatehouse. It’s locked, though.”

“She’s a rogue,” Gatsi comments, the tone in his voice almost offended for their Inquisitor. “We’ve worked on the fortress’ locks. Not that one, though. Yet.”

Cullen makes for the stairs. “Both of you, stay here. Gatsi, continue your work. I’ll alert some guards.”

“But it’s just the Inquisitor,” the guard protests.

“It’s a game,” he explains, fighting the little grin on his lips. “We’re fortunate that we haven’t had any prisoners escape yet. She wants to test it, so let’s test it.”


	69. On Your Mark...

It’s an elaborate game of hide-and-seek.

He’s only won two of eleven of their games back in Ferelden, and she let him win those. If she’s testing their guard rotation and security, she certainly won’t be so generous this time around. And as it is, no one is ever quite capable of finding her, wherever she is when she’s at Skyhold.

“Oh, Commander,” a soldier calls out, jogging up next to him. “The Inquis—the _assassin_ killed me on her way out. I didn’t see it coming.”

“You... died?” he asks slowly. What?

“Snapped my neck from behind as I walked by. My body should be leaning against the wall, made to look like I’m asleep and slacking off, but she told me to keep doing what I was doing, and let you know when you left the cells so you could find my dead body more quickly.”

“I... see,” Cullen nods, trying not to laugh. “Thank you. As you were.”

“Commander,” the soldier nods, and continues on.

He has to appreciate how she manages to get others to cooperate.

He clears his throat, garnering the attention of the soldiers still training with Three-Eyes. “Attention: we have... an assassin on the loose, of a sort.”

“The Inquisitor?” one of the soldiers asks. Cullen nods.

“She killed Cameron,” another says. “Poor sod.”

“May he walk in the Maker’s light,” a third adds solemnly, enjoying her game far too much.

“Yes, the world is less without him,” Cullen rolls his eyes. “I need you to alert the guards on duty and be on the lookout. If this were a real escaped prisoner, we _would_ be mourning his death.”

“Should we pursue her if we find her?”

Cullen pauses for a moment. The whole purpose of finding her is to test their defenses and guards.

“Yes,” he responds. “She will fight back, or at the very least, attempt to escape. Detain her, but I don’t need to tell you to refrain from injuring our leader.”

“Should we lock down the main building? Let our noble guests know?”

Josephine would murder the Inquisitor herself if they caused a panic. ‘ _The Inquisition needs to appear respectable and competent_ ,’ he can hear her chastising the both of them. A game of hide-and-seek to poke holes in their security would do the very opposite, despite what it’s already doing for morale.

“No, keep this within our people. Some of our guests may not quite understand our leader’s... methods,” he instructs, and under certain circumstances he knows Josephine would want him to keep such an issue quiet as to not startle their guests. “But close the gates. We don’t want her getting any farther.”

“Understood.”

“Good. Dismissed,” he nods, enjoying this little game a bit more than he ought to. The soldiers certainly are, as spontaneous as it is. Perhaps he should ask her to do this a bit more often.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for a small & very slow update. The education system has not been kind OTL


	70. Get Set

“Please, Varric?” she asks, batting her lashes. “Pretty please?”

“Don’t,” he chuckles, swatting her hand away as she attempts to place it on his arm. “And don’t bat your lashes. That doesn’t work on me.”

“You’re no fun,” she pouts.

“And you’re apparently too much,” he grins. “Assassin-hide-and-seek? Really?”

“It’s a training exercise,” she corrects.

“Mhm-hmm. And I’m that gullible,” he responds, a smirk on his lips. “Playing the inside man, though? Me? Do I look like a traitor to you? Do all the demons, dragons, and other shit we fought together, emphasis on the _together_ part because you just love dragging me out there, mean nothing to you?”

“Quite the opposite, it means everything to me. That’s why I’m asking,” she answers, genuine because really, he’s brilliant, and she doesn’t think he gets enough credit for his subtly. It has to be Varric. He’s perfect for the job. “I’m not asking anyone else. I’m asking _you_.”

“Oh-ho, you’re after my heart.”

“I’m after your info, because you’re a smooth talker with the right connections to give me, if I were an assassin, the right tidbits and leads,” she provides. “And I might still be after touching your chest hair.”

“Flatterer.”

“It’s true.”

“Oh? Which?”

“Both,” she grins.

He laughs. “You’re good.”

“Not good enough, it seems,” she says, rising from her seat. “I guess I can always ask Three-Ey—“

“Oh no you don’t,” Varric cuts in. “Don’t insult me. I’m in.”

“You’re the best,” she beams, throwing her arms around him. He sighs, patting her back before pulling away.

“What do you need me to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not updating in a month (though I am guilty of that for another). Finals are nearly over, and so I'll have more time to write. Thanks for sticking with the fic!


	71. Go, go, go!

A game? Fuck, _a game?_ Really?

_Really?_

This is not why he signed on.

“This is _not_ why I signed on,” Crawford grumbles, Flemming practically bouncing with each step next to him.

“You’re not fun,” she nearly sings.

“We shouldn’t be having fun. We’re at war.”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“We’re fighting an ancient darkspawn or whatever, and he hasn’t attacked us since. He’s doing, we’re reacting right now, trying to cut him off before he can do any harm.”

“Okay, and when we get our orders to go to war?”

Flemming huffs. “You’re no fun.”

Crawford rolls his eyes, pulling out his dagger and sticking a bush.

“Hey, careful,” Flemming scolds him. “What if something was in there?”

“Like our leader? Gimme a break,” he rolls his eyes. “What exactly does a game of hide-and-seek accomplish? Y’know, besides wasting our time.”

“Uh, hands-on experience tracking a rogue in case one does break in. And one _did_ ,” she responds pointedly. “Ambassador Montilyet, remember? Oh, and the Ben-Hassrath.”

Crawford grumbles. “Fine.”

“Besides, what if we go to war tomorrow? What if we have to march in two hours?” she offers. “You’re up, right? Might as well have a bit of fun before we probably all die.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m just being realistic,” Flemming shrugs, moving ahead to the barn, “and I think she is, too.”

Crawford ponders for a moment. It _does_ beat watching others get drunk in the tavern, or training himself to exhaustion before collapsing in his bunk. It’s different, he’ll give the Inquisitor that.

He shifts into a lay jog to catch up to Flemming, but upon entering the barn he has to ask.

“What the shit happened here?”

“I was _murdered_ ,” Warden Blackwall attempts to inform him seriously, faltering with a low chuckle as he lay on the ground, flat on his back with his limbs spread out a little too dramatically. Firewood, hay, a few tools, and a knife are tossed about in disarray, plus one stool knocked over, obvious signs of a (pretend) struggle, but not a loud one.

“If this were a real assassin, she would’ve tried to kill him, but he would’ve put up a fight,” Crawford murmurs, piecing the scene together.

“He’s gone,” Flemming declares dramatically, on her knees by the corpse of the Warden, likely having pretended to check his pulse.

“I know, he just said so,” Crawford scoffs. Ser Blackwall fights a laugh. “Where did she get you?”

“We can’t talk to the corpse,” Flemming protests. “That’s cheating.”

“Uh, he told us he was murdered, and in case you’ve forgotten, Cameron’s still walking around,” Crawford rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, but you’re breaking the suspension of disbelief!”

“Tell that to the laughing dead body over there,” he sighs, watching as the Warden rolls over, laughing as described.

“Well, you two obviously know there was a struggle,” Blackwall says, settling as he rises to his feet and dusts himself off. He lifts his left arm, pointing to the white chalk on his jacket by his ribs. “We fought, but she managed to stick me here.”

“Huh. Helpful,” Crawford remarks. Obviously the Inquisitor can’t murder her people, but she’s taking an extra step to leave some kind of evidence behind. Warden Blackwall moves about to clean up the mess, and continue about his business.

“Then she left you for dead, but unlike Cameron she left your body on the ground,” Flemming ponders. “What if she’s on the run? I mean, we’ve got the gates locked down, and the only other way out would be a suicide jump.”

“Well, maybe Cameron saw her, or he was in the way so she moved his body. Here, Ser Blackwall was just left, so she’s getting sloppy. Must be in a hurry.”

“All right, so if you were an assassin, where else would you go?” Flemming asks. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Cameron was killed on her way out of the cells.”

“Yeah, so?”

“But Ser Blackwall and the barn are a bit out of the way from the gates. She might’ve been able to make it out of Skyhold if she didn’t go for him.”

“Well, we would’ve lost the game if she escaped.”

“Yeah, but what if that wasn’t the plan?” Flemming continues. “What if she’s going after her—uh, the _Inquisitor’s_ inner circle? Pretty important people, right?”

“They all have some connections... wait, we already have the Wardens with us.”

“Yeah, but after everything they’ve been through, do you really think they’d stay here if one of their own was murdered right under our noses? Under the assumption that this is real, of course.”

“... probably not.” It wouldn’t inspire much confidence, that’s for sure. A dead Warden within the walls of Skyhold after making an alliance with them... Damn. Clever. “Okay, so who’s next, know-it-all?”

“Well, who’s closest?” Flemming asks.

“Fuck,” Crawford swears. “The dwarf. The mages. They’re in the hall.”

They’re going to have to pretend like they aren’t on the hunt.

Crawford sighs. Well played, Inquisitor.


	72. MURDER! MURDER!

“Murder! Murder! Someone _HELP!"_

Crawford and Flemming rush out of the barn while Buzz and Kallum stop pestering the show owners. Jeb emerges from underneath one of the stands, hitting his head on the way as Cameron rushes down the stairs from the hall.

“What the crap, Cameron, you’re supposed to be dead,” Buzz raises a brow. Way to break the suspension of disbelief.

“And we’re not supposed to panic the nobles so like... I dunno, tone it down,” Jeb adds, rubbing his head.

“I mourned you,” Kallum says accusingly. “We all did.”

“I didn’t,” Crawford rolls his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“The ambassador’s been _assassinated,_ ” Cameron exclaims in a whisper. “But y’know, not really.”

“You mean like you and the Warden?” Flemming grins, jerking a thumb back at the barn.

“Wait, seriously?” Kallum asks. “How much of a head start did she get?”

“She could have an accomplice, y’know, someone to help her infiltrate the fortress, give her rooms and the guests, our guard rotations,” Buzz shrugs. “This is getting pretty intense.”

“Okay, until someone actually dies or we get attacked, no, it’s not intense,” Crawford protests.

“Buzzkill,” Buzz rolls his eyes.

“Oh, so punny,” Crawford scoffs before turning to Cameron. “Start talking, dead guy. How long was she cold? Where’d you find her body, what was the place like? Did she struggle, does it look like our assassin escaped, and in what direction?”

“For a guy who’s not into playing games you’re sure getting into this one,” Kallum grins. Crawford glares at her.

“Ambassador Montilyet grabbed me and told me to tell whoever was involved that she’d been murdered about five minutes ago. Poison. She assumes it was the wine, since she didn’t have anything else for a few hours now.”

“So she poisoned a drink before getting caught, and escaped before interrogation,” Buzz pieces together. “Impressive.”

“Hi? This isn’t real,” Crawford snaps.

“Yeah, but it’s a good plan, so in theory it’s impressive,” Buzz responds.

“Okay, get a room you two,” Kallum butts in. “So she poisoned a drink. Was it just the one bottle? What does the Ambassador take?”

“Wait, shit, Crawford and I came to a conclusion,” Flemming exclaims. “She’s targeting her inner circle.”

“You mean _the Inquisitor’s_ inner circle,” Cameron corrects.

“You’re dead. Hush.”

“None of the nobles are dead, so we can either assume that’s because they’re not involved in the game and therefore not viable targets, or because she really does want to target her inner circle.”

“Probably due to involvement,” Crawford says. “I mean, we’re supposed to keep this within our people.”

Jeb makes for the kitchen. “I’m gonna question the staff. They’re ours, so they might be playing. With any luck I can find out who drinks what, when they’ve been served, and by who.”

“Crawford and I’ll head to the hall, see if we can keep an eye on the mages and the dwarf,” Flemming nods.

“I guess Kallum and me’ll head to the tavern, watch the rest of the inner circle.”

“You just want to get a drink.”

“You’re not wrong,” Buzz responds. “C’mon Cameron. You’re dead so you’re coming with us if you’re not busy.”


	73. Kiss & Tell

Cullen stands on the walkway between his office and the rotunda, watching as the small group of soldiers below poke at bushes and crawl under shop stands, much to the owners’ chagrin.

Leliana, having stepped out from her space and onto the balcony, observes him as he watches his people.

“They are certainly having fun,” she calls out. Cullen chuckles.

“They could use it,” he responds. They probably shouldn’t, but it _is_ a practical game, one that has purpose, and at the moment there isn’t too much to worry about – no immediate dangers. Well, not tonight at this rate.

A few of the soldiers begin to question the occupants below, Cullen and Leliana turning to face the barn and watching as two move in, likely questioning Blackwall.

“How long do you think this will last?” Leliana bellows.

“Depends on how long they have the time for it.”

“You know, they could simply ask my agents to help.”

“Might feel like cheating,” he chuckles. “Though it would make sense, were this all real.”

“Shall I inform my agents of any potential incoming requests for help?”

“We’ll see,” he answers. “For all I know your agents could be working for her in this matter.”

“Double agents?” Leliana smirks. “An interesting theory.”

“That you will no doubt encourage.”

“I will not openly intervene, but if my agents come across anything regarding our Inquisitor-Assassin, they will let yours know,” the Spymaster responds. Cullen nods, suspecting that she might double deal in the game, help both him and the Inquisitor, maybe bribe some of the maids and servants. She is a rogue herself, and he recalls Lav once telling him that Leliana considered teaching her the ways of a bard if they had time.

And of course she rather enjoys watching their leader wrap him around her smallest finger. Of course, Leliana’s people are a crucial part of the Inquisition. Free time might not be a luxury they can have.

“If your people are busy, don’t trouble them with this,” Cullen calls out to her. Leliana nods.

“And yours should rest and regroup tomorrow. Might give our assassin time to surprise them.”

“Mhm, fair point,” he responds. Leliana bids him good evening, heading back inside before Cullen makes for his office intent on shortcutting to the stairs.

However, the last place he expected to find her is there during her game.

“It’s a _training exercise_ ,” she corrects.

“It’s a game,” he says flatly.

“We’ll agree to disagree,” she waves a hand. “I actually came to your office for a very important reason.”

“And that would be...?”

“To murder you,” she responds casually. “Not literally, of course.”

“I think we’d have to talk about our relationship if you were.”

“You’re cute when you’re witty, have I told you that?” she smiles. “I got the Lady Ambassador. Someone should be coming to inform you of her ‘ _murder_ ’ soon enough.”

“I hope you realize that I’d put up a fight,” he comments. Josephine probably agreed just to keep her from causing a ruckus in the hall.

“You’re going to fight me?” she raises a brow, obviously amused.

“I know you escaped, and I _found_ you. You didn’t sneak up on me,” he explains. She takes a step back, and Cullen corners her by his bookshelf. “No where left to go.”

“Are you going to apprehend me or kill me?”

“If you were an actual assassin, we’d have to interrogate you,” Cullen murmurs, knuckles faintly grazing her arms as they travel up towards her shoulders. He lets his hands fall, however, and takes her wrists, pinning her against his shelf. “So: what are you after?”

“I’m quite certain I’ve told you once that I don’t crack under interrogations. Nerves of steel and all that,” she responds, the slightest bit of a smirk on her lips. Cullen moves in close, brushes his nose across hers gently, listens to the way she takes a breath. She adores it when he does that.

“Who’s your next target?” he asks, a dainty kiss to her lips to start. She smiles politely, not saying a word. He smirks, moves in for a deeper kiss that she returns happily, obviously pleased with his enthusiasm playing her game. He gently bites her lower lip, pulling back and garnering a little gasp. Despite how long they’ve been together she still seems surprised by his occasional bouts of forwardness. He intends to take full advantage of that.

“You were my next target,” she admits, “but you already knew that.”

“Assuming you’d actually succeed, who would’ve been next?” he continues. Before giving her a moment to respond, however, Cullen trails his lips down her chin, pressing kisses and brushing his stubble along her jaw, earning giggles along the way. “Varric, perhaps?”

“And why would I murder a dwarven merchant? What would that gain me?”

“Our Spymaster, then?” he guesses. “Your nerves of steel are giving me all the answers I want.”

“Or maybe I just want you to think you’re getting all the answers you want.”

“Should I tickle you then?”

“I quite like your interrogation tactics as they are, truth be told,” she grins.

“Do you, now?”

“Quite.”

Cullen smirks, leaning into her lips before pressing his to hers. He brings one of his hands —still lightly holding her wrist— up, index finger tracing her lower lip, and feels the way her fingers grasp at any part of him — his armor, the fur of his coat, likely hoping to keep her hand in place and slip from his the moment they get wrapped up in a kiss. He takes their hands farther from himself, removing her chance to anchor herself somewhere and later wriggle free, and as she moves to protest Cullen leans in and immediately she pauses, words disappearing as they kiss, lips parting and curving into a smile as her eyes flutter shut the moment his tongue grazes hers before he slowly pulls back.

“I hope you don’t interrogate all your captives like this,” she breathes, resisting with her words but nevertheless leaning in after his lips, obviously wanting more.

“Only the clever elven brunettes who frequent the Fade.”

“Oddly specific,” she murmurs as he returns to pressing little kisses along her neck. “Y-you know... this interrogation would work a lot better if you used your hands.”

“Nice try,” he chuckles against crook of her neck, feeling the way she shivers in response. “You’d only attempt to escape.”

“I-I wouldn’t _attempt_ anything,” she protests, a delectable little gasp leaving her lips as he makes his way up to nip her earlobe. “I _would_.”

“You’re resilient, I’ll give you that.”

“Thank you.”

“I suppose I’ll simply have to interrogate you through the night to get the answers I want.”

She grins, presses her lips to his for a moment before pulling back just an inch, brushing noses with his.

“You’re more than welcome to try.”

“Oh, I have no intention of _trying_ ,” he mimics. “I simply _would_.”


	74. La Femme Lavellan

Cullen awakens to his wrists tied to his bed posts.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he rolls his eyes, though not entirely displeased with his current view, watching his Inquisitor get dressed. Considering how often the two of them share a bed, she’d left some of her clothes in his room, and he left some of his in hers, only a stray shirt or two, and an extra pair of trousers. He watches as she buttons up the top of her dress, an intricate floral design, no doubt another piece from the collection Vivienne ordered, everything entirely tailored to compliment Lav's palette. Josephine’s collection from Antiva focuses more on silks and vibrant colours.

Don't ask. He simply knows these things.

He tugs at his silken restraints, eying them briefly before noticing one particular detail. “Is this one part of your dress?”

“To go around my waist, yes. A dainty little belt I don’t need,” she explains, turning to wink at him. “You can keep it. Looks so much better on you.”

He snorts. “My lady’s favour, then? I’m honoured. Well, I would be, under different circumstances.”

“Sorry, Commander, but I can’t take the risk,” she says. “That look becomes you, though.”

“Tied to my own bed?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you’d find it amusing.”

“Among other things,” she smirks, crawling up the bed before she seats herself on his stomach. He can feel her stockings brush against his hips and the fabric of her skirt on his stomach. However, the slightest touch of her legs, her skin against his, sends chills through him, and Cullen can’t help the burning curiosity as he watches her fiddle with the strings of his tunic. She undoes his shirt, opening it slightly before inching down to press her lips to his chest, looking up to face him and brush her nose upward against his, and then kissing his lips gently.

“Going to take advantage of me?”

“Not unless you want me to,” she grins. “But I wouldn’t if you did. Not my style.”

Cullen has half the mind to ask her what is.

“Are you the escaped assassin or you at the moment?” he quirks a brow. She snickers.

“A bit of both,” she shrugs, smug. “But I should get going.”

“Where?”

“Well I got what I wanted,” she reveals. “You really should be careful with where you put your guard rotations and other missives, Commander. I found them rather easily once you were asleep.”

His eyes widen before he glares at her. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” she smirks. “Y’know, if I was actually the enemy, I would’ve found that one with Rylen and the supply route for Griffin Wing Keep’s reconstruction materials particularly interesting. Lucky for you I can’t stretch this game that far, otherwise that’d be a really good training exercise.”

“You play dirty,” he grumbles, tugging at his restraints, noting one to be a slightly more complicated knot than the other. He'd be out in less than forty seconds.

However, she has a good point.

“My dear Commander, you have no idea how dirty I play.”

Cullen has half a response ready, but the words don’t leave his lips. Instead, he lets out a shaky breath as she rolls her hips, grinding on him.

Dirty indeed.

But he doesn’t mind, however. Quite the opposite, in fact, as he exhales sharply, listens to the way she giggles, rolling her hips again and again, bites her lip as her eyes never leave his.

She leans down, chest gently against his as she props herself up on one arm, one teasing little kiss after the next to his lips.

“You’re torturing me.”

“Your interrogation tactics were dirty,” she responds, bringing herself to a stop before moving up to brush the tip of her nose against his.

She climbs off him at a casual pace, straightens out her skirt and fixes her hair as if nothing had just happened between them. When Cullen clears his throat, she smiles.

“Something to think about,” she says simply, and vanishes before his eyes.

Maker, he’s not going to be able to think of much else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the two month delay. I had a rocky end of the semester & a serious case of writer's block.


	75. Admission & Apology

“Cullen?”

She stops him from leaving the war room, and he closes the door behind him. Something in her tone is far from playful, and he’d rather not give Leliana more things to tease him about.

“I figured you’d be rushing out these doors for a head start,” he muses. He won’t lie, however: he did notice she was a little far off during the meeting.

“Like I did this morning?” she bites her lip, somehow much less confident than she was a few hours ago. “I actually wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Oh?”

“I realized that I was so focused on getting a leg up on you in my little game that I did what I always do, or... used to do, and I just... did what I wanted.”

He raises a brow. “I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow.”

“I tied you to your own bed without your consent, and I’m sorry,” she says evenly.

“You don’t need to—“

“No, Cullen, I do, and please just let me finish because I’m not sure I’ll be able to actually form a fully coherent apology ever again,” she interrupts, rounding the war table and standing before him. She takes a deep breath. “You once told me that you weren’t proud of some of the things you had done.”

“I did.”

“Well that makes two of us, but... that’s a story I’ll owe you for another day. If you want to hear it,” she continues. “My point is: I like playing games. I always have. That’s something that may never change about me.”

“And I find that oddly endearing,” he responds. “I confess, I find this conversation to be a little out of the blue, though.”

“Well, I guess being polite about it isn’t an option anymore,” she sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Cullen, when it comes to sex, do you like being tied up?”

“Wha— M-maker’s breath, _no!_ ”

“But I did it anyways.”

“But that wasn’t—“

Maker, was she...?

“But it could’ve. It wasn’t, and I don’t like that kind of thing, but it could’ve,” she shakes her head. “I wasn’t thinking about how it could’ve looked and felt. I was thinking about getting ahead of you in a silly game. I didn’t think about it because I wasn’t sure about whether we’re at a point to talk about sex or not, and then I realized how not seriously I’ve been taking this — _us_ — when I should, because you mean a lot to me, and I don’t want to mess this up. I wasn’t thinking about how you might react or feel and I didn’t realize it until _after_ I overstepped, which is the point.”

Her apology is filled with several bits of information all fighting for his immediate attention. Firstly, a past she isn’t proud of, something he doesn’t want to ask about because she never asked for the details of his. His curiosity is piqued, however. It’s the first time she’s ever mentioned something of the sort, but he isn’t too surprised. She has a certain way with words. Secondly, the state of their relationship, and how much it means to her. Their trip to Ferelden cemented what exactly he wants with her, and only now does he realize that they’re not quite on the same page. Or perhaps they are, as he hasn’t mentioned wanting a future with her yet himself. Regardless, it’s fairly new for both of them, and the fact that she’s apologizing about something he hadn’t quite thought about means that she wants to be careful to do things right because it’s important to her, which he appreciates. Finally: sex. They haven’t talked about sex at all. The only time it’s ever come up is when other people gossip about them, and despite how much he adores he, he’s barely spared it a real thought. Too busy having fun to care.

“They were unbelievably easy knots,” he says, an attempt to lighten the mood. And in truth, they were. Her shoulders relax, but by a small fraction. “Like undoing my boots. I actually expected better.”

“Well I wasn’t going to make you stay there all da—“ she huffs, “hey! I’m serious. For once. I’m sorry. I mean it. I don’t want to overstep. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to do, or think that you have to do something because it seems like I want to.”

He pulls her closer, pressing his lips to her forehead.

“This is important to you, isn’t it?”

“It is,” she nods, wrapping her arms around his waist. “And you are. Important to me, I mean. More than I’ll ever know how to say.”

Cullen wants to tell her he feels the same, that what he feels for her, what he wants with her, is so much more than what he can bring himself to say. But when the words fail to leave his lips, he closes the remaining distance between them, hoping that a tender kiss can say enough. For now, anyway.

“But so we’re clear,” she murmurs, eyes meeting his as she pecks his lips quickly, “this does not mean I’m giving up. I’ll continue fake-picking off members of the Inquisition until you or your soldiers can catch me. I also have a report sitting on your desk detailing at least seven different points of entry. Gatsi has a copy. He’ll forward his to Leliana and Josephine once he’s checked them out and has added additional notes. We’ll discuss them at a later date.”

“Of course,” Cullen chuckles, pulling her in for a hug. “I don’t suppose _this_ counts as me apprehending you?”

“You wish,” she grins, pulling herself from his grasp.

“Game on then, Inquisitor.”

“Game on, Commander.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after some odd 70+ chapters I've had to go back and reread what I've written and it dawned on me that this fic is almost 2 years old, as is my writing e.e That said, I'm slowly revising the fic (as of right now chapter 1 has been redone). Things are the same at the core, but words and minor changes make 'em different. Just throwing that out there.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around <3


	76. chit-chat

Guard duty on the battlements is its own kind of torture. It’s not particularly exciting or boring, but it’s cold, and between towers only two guards stand watch, with a smaller handful making continuous rounds.

“So how does the game work during the day?” Jeb ponders aloud.

“What do you mean?” Kallum asks.

“I mean I saw the Inquisitor in the hall socializing with some of our esteemed guests, so I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to tackle her to the ground and apprehend her for the supposed murder of the Lady Ambassador.”

“And Warden Blackwall.”

“And him.”

“And Cameron.”

“Also him. And maybe someone else in the dead of night,” he nods. “You think she got to the Commander? He seems like an obvious choice, and we didn’t see him at all last night once the game started.”

“Better question, my friend: do you think he’s in on it?” Kallum proposes.

“Oh, because they’re... good point,” Jeb nods. “They were probably screwing last night. If it comes up, he’ll probably say she attempted to kill him, failed, and got away.”

“But can we take that as the truth? Within the context of the game, anyway,” Kallum insists. “I mean, she started it, and he actually agreed to do it. _Play_. A _game_. For _fun_.”

“You actually think he’s scary all the time?”

“You’ve obviously never seen Jim squeak and run in the opposite direction when the Commander’s within earshot,” she says. “He’s serious like, all the time.”

“I’m sure he has his moments. I mean, he’s shacking up with the Inquisitor,” Jeb shrugs. “ _The Inquisitor_.”

“Who’s is shacking up with the Inquisitor now?” Buzz calls out, exiting one of the towers. “Hey.”

“Hey,” the others respond.

“The Commander. She’s still shacking up with the same guy,” Jeb explains. “Still kinda weird thinking about it, though.”

“I heard she eloped with that chevalier. Figured they’d be back on or was that not true?”

“People also say she was sleeping with the Tevinter mage, that she gropes the dwarf all the time, and rode the Bull. No witnesses: no proof,” Buzz says. “We’ve all actually seen her and the Commander. Plus, all the servants gossip all the time. I’ve heard five variations of the same story. One had a duel to the death and I didn’t see anyone die.”

 “Fair enough.”

“Odd looking pair,” Kallum muses. “I honestly don’t get why either of them like each other. They’re so... different. It’s weird.”

“You jealous?” Jeb teases.

“I always kinda figured he’d go for like... I dunno, someone like Seeker Cassandra. Or another warrior. Strong, serious, and disciplined, y’know? She’s so... not any of those things.”

“Y’know? I can really see that,” Buzz nods. “Though personally, I always thought he’d end up with a mage.”

“What? That’s so... well, I mean it makes sense, but that’s also way too obvious,” Kallum responds. “And a little cliché.”

Jeb chuckles. “What, not a fan of star-crossed lovers? The whole forbidden templar-mage thing?”

“I don’t hate them, but like... this is real life, guys, not some fancy story,” she explains. “Trouble usually follows the star-crossed lovers, anyway.”

“There’s a hole in the sky, Kal,” Jeb says pointedly.

“And some giant darkspawn magister is hellbent on destroying everything,” Buzz adds.

“Whatever,” Kallum scoffs. “Wait, not whatever.”

“Girl, you lost us.”

“A story, guys,” she exclaims, grabbing Jeb by the shoulders and shaking him. “A murder mystery, duh!”

“And...?”

“Who’s the assassin’s targeting?”

“The Inquisitor’s inner circle,” Buzz responds.

“Okay, and who’s died so far?”

“Uh, the Warden and Lady Ambassador.”

“Yeah, so: rising action. Things get bad,” Kallum waves her hand as she speaks. “The Inquisition’s just cemented an alliance with the Wardens. Who just died?”

“Our Warden, plus the Lady Ambassador. Killing a Warden might weaken a new alliance, and killing the ambassador hampers our ability to negotiate, especially since she handles majority of it,” Jeb pieces together slowly. “Nice theory.”

“Okay, so what’s next on the Inquisition’s agenda?” Buzz asks.

“Well, I hear some party at Halamshiral’s coming up soon. Kind of. Support from Orlais seems like a logical next step. With the civil war going on between Gaspard and Celene it’d make sense for us to step in,” Kallum muses. “So key people to help with an alliance with them would be... Madame de Fer?”

“And Sister Nightingale,” Jeb adds. “We have her next targets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. Hit a block, got into new fandoms, and summer was full of academics and work >.<


	77. tea & biscuits

“I find it adorable that they think I’m a murderer with absolutely no imagination,” Lav sighs, sipping her tea.

Solas chuckles, leaning back into his seat as he flips the page of his book. “Considering your pattern so far, you might grant them more credit.”

“I never said they weren’t sharp. It’s a good theory. If I weren’t me, I’d believe it.”

“But?”

“It’s short-sighted. If I’m stranded here, I need to make a lasting impact on the Inquisition before I’m apprehended. They’re thinking short term, because they’re still playing it like it’s a game and not a real what-if case.”

“And who might your next target be if you’re thinking ahead?”

“You.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Thank you,” she grins. “You’re the expert on the Fade, something the Inquisition needs when it comes to fighting Corypheus, which is our main goal. Removing Josephine certainly hampers our incoming alliances and resources, and weakening the Wardens’ trust in us also does damage, too. Picking Vivienne or Leliana as my next targets makes sense since Halarmshiral is our next course, but... if we’re talking long-term, you’re the house expert on the Fade and elven artifacts. We could, in theory, find some scholar to take your place, but I doubt the scope of their knowledge wouldn’t be hindered by the Chantry. Plus, you like your alone time. Makes it a touch easier to get to you than Leliana up there or Vivienne in the hall. Plus, you’re not an obvious choice.”

“Assuming you’d succeed, how would you murder me?”

“With your blessing, I’d do it in your sleep.”

“Fitting,” he chuckles. “And you have my blessing. My blood is on your hands.”

“Mind if I ask for one more favour? It’s messy.”

Solas chuckles, leaning forward as he rested his chin on a hand. “I’m listening.”


	78. fill in the blanks

Josephine pays a visit to Cullen’s office. Convening in hers before or after a meeting in the war room is normally how they meet to discuss matters of the Inquisition, but today she brings him their Inquisitor’s report of potential weak points personally.

When she hands him the parchment, she stands and waits before he skims the first page.

“Wait... you mean to tell me she actually crawled out these entry points or climbed outside the fortress and then made her own way back in?” Wouldn’t that mean she’s creating these points of entry herself rather than finding them?"

Well, now he finally knows where she disappears to on her own time.

“I found some of them to be silly myself, such as the larder, for one,” Josephine chuckles. “However, a secure infiltration route is dangerous. You’ll find she has notes on our guard rotations and servants’ habits for a full twenty-four hours, windows of opportunity recorded. She’s nothing if not thorough.”

Maker, she’s watched an entire guard rotation and a day’s worth of work. They don’t change their routines very often, if ever.

“Then I am in for one very interesting read,” he nods. “Have you passed this to Leliana?”

“Not yet. She is currently preoccupied with gathering intel on Halamshiral and may not come to it until later, so I thought it best for you to look it over first,” Lady Montilyet explains. “Also: I’ve already discussed this with the Inquisitor, but your game may only be played _after hours_.”

“At night, you mean.”

“Occasionally our guests will request meetings and small social gatherings at any given moment, even at night, if you’ll recall,” she continues. “While it may be disruptive, she is our leader, and I would rest easier knowing that another assassin cannot enter our walls.”

“I remember.”

 Josephine was attacked once, and the Ben-Hasrath infiltrated their guards. No doubt Leliana’s people have taken to keeping tabs on the Inquisition itself, which means securing an alternate route to any potential targets becomes a more appealing option to any potential assassins or spies.

“Gatsi is working to close holes within the fortress. I support her finding them, in addition to testing our soldiers,” she says. “However, do keep them all from disturbing our guests. Inquisitor included.”

“Of course,” Cullen nods. “Josephine?”

“Yes?”

“How exactly did you die? In the game.”

Josephine smiles. “Poison.”

“That somehow suits you,” Cullen chuckles. “You were ‘poisoned’ last night?”

“Yes. Then I died sometime after your game started. Not long, I think,” she continues. “This would make for an interesting book.”

“Mention it to Varric.”

“I’m sure whatever she has planned, he knows,” she muses. “But... the question then becomes: why don’t you? I told one of your soldiers to inform you as well as anyone else who might be playing.”

“Oh, I was... preoccupied.”

Josephine hums knowingly. “Of course you were.”

“I should... probably get going.”

“Of course,” she nods as he gets on his way. “Oh, Commander?”

“Yes?”

“Good luck,” she smirks. “You’ll need it.”

**Author's Note:**

> fuck if I know ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
